It had always been quite a large toss-up, the balanced thoughts,
Choosing the right contenders-every correct
Blonde and blue-eyed princeling.
There are not many good ones. I presume this as fact.
It is penned on my face, a painted scarecrow in the vineyards of thyme,
Spoiling the fun of those crows congregating
Upon the green clovers. No right choice is the best choice,
And neither are their epiphanic poignancies-the bluebells
Growing by my stick feet, on my sulky face, my falling cheeks,
And on my undyed leather jaw crumbling into sawdust.
I remember that it is but a heavenly art.
How will I find what it is needed to be found
Amongst the fields and weeds if there are so many of those
Awful contenders in the world-so many of those great evils?
O I will run through them all one day,
Clean air passing through the ventricles of my mousy-brown hair
Like a burning bird of fire sounding prophetic whispers,
Evensongs of Armageddon. It will be without care,
And I will bear no desire to pick a new brute to fright,
Another great evil to pluck, like a toddler struggling to
Pull old root vegetables. I will stab the pink and ever-growing
Merry-black of their beings before they ever get me!
And I will be happier than them, for I will not allow the dying
Of this land in which I stand, passive and in rot,
And them, the crows, to swarm.
They will not be of a murder; they will be of a silly gaggle.
And I will be alive longer, never to be a secret amongst
The thyme and bluebells.
Silent water, copper's killer, here is the scarecrow.
