Ragged Claws

It ill behoves a gentleman
to speak of love and need -
but gentlemen make lousy poets.

Me, I have no grammar and I have no shame.
I howl to the moon,
ill-groomed and loud and happy.

So, burn me at the stake.
Bar me from your cosy clubs.
I’ll sing the hungry cubs the rowdy facts of life.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 21st, 2007 at 2:52 pm and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.