The Spoonbill Generator

The Uneasiness Of Motives

They also serve who wait there to return

Those bunyons on the toes left yet to spurn

Those pilgrims from the slipper to the sole.

They always wait whose turn will never come

They sit on their highly publicized bums,

They disallow the fervour of the numb.

They simply rot who never speak their piece

All slathered to a shine with bacon grease,

All tongue-tied in a quicksand of despair

They ever watch whose eyes are too remote

To circumvolve the orbit of the goat

All count the waves upon their moat

They barely warrant warmth who covet wine

Or place dead pigeons on the railway line

By accident; still less if by design.

They often sneeze who eat their food too fast

The peppers are what make the sneezes last,

obliterating traces of their past.

They fade away, whose ghostly residue

Recalls the odour of a vanished stew

Refuting all that wiser men hold true

They sit and quip of politics,

Relying upon mirrors for their tricks.

Spitting out a morbid stew,

And losing all the detail in the mix

The ghostly residue returns,

Smelling of the ashes from the urns.

That shatter every hope as heaven burns

Contributors: TG, Stacy, Roland, P, Nancee, Bop.
Poem finished: 24th January 1997.