Hagiography of Old Men
From all and sundry portrayals,
You’d think they sprouted
Full blown from their own head,
Convinced by their own bloviating.
No book, no prayer, no candle,
As they pack their prejudices
And provincialisms down
The lanes of eternal childhood,
Which so many worship
In a waste land where they
Amble about brooking no concern
About unveiling any of life’s mysteries.
They reckon it enough to eat,
Sleep, work, breed, and vote the rascals out.
Requiescite in Pace.
Last edited by Linda Sue - Poet; 01/29/14 02:37 AM.
