Gabriel's Hiccoughs
Sledgehammer? I thought to use a shovel
to bury your body in the eternally deep rubble
That ensnares the source of the Nile (or Dart)
And to the crocodiles throw your black, black heart.
There's no metre that runs from line to line,
Six feet, twelve syllables would be Alexandrine;
Whereas, iambic, goes the line of ten,
It matters no jot to us Renaissance men
When once I've killed you, peace will not be mine,
I'll never know true peace until I find my feet
To be the true companions of my soul...
Contributors: | Apsley, Anon., fester, Beefy. |
Poem finished: | 14th May 2002. |