Walkin on Air


One early morn, quite forlorn,
I asked myself the forbidden question,
hitherto weighted down
to drag along the ground
encumbered by loads of mawkish luggage:
What would be next to come my way?
How would I know what to say?

Time factors eroded my splendid youth:
‘spring-chicken id' quashed by entropy uncouth!
Who'd thought ‘Old Bottle' lure
would be so unbearable to endure?

Stagnant spiritual spaces,
long cold winter-putrefaction
slapped our haggard faces,
challenging our comatose inaction;
we prayed a fresh spring-breeze
would waft through our flatulent ranks
of Sad-sacks ageing disgracefully,
bloated with self-inflicted pranks,
inexorably infecting the testimony!

Ah, yes, come to me in the calm of nite,
be an invigorating cool respite
like a wet cloth on a feverish head
would soothe an upset whimpering child;
the indignity of it all
chasing money until I fall:
Mammon of Unrighteousness it is held
serves humble pie ‘till the bells have knelled!

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