The Hunger

I am well unfed

there is nothing made from the dough

the days that I have though tread

make me feel vain to rest at the bough

 

Silence is begotten in the roots

of the marching armies of the nation

but I slouch on the sofa without boots

and ten thousand soldiers clamor for ration

 

The world is one food basket yet the hungry mouths yell loud

and the tinkering bells tinkle over the meandering cloud

The sounds fickle and feeble

my stomach empty yet my tongue is able

 

to sing the symphonies for the ponies in the stable

who though fed like to fight the races

I run through the streets without laces.

Only to return to the hungry yards of the fable.

 

 

 

 

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