He sank into their calculations
And snorted
on the stench
Of their arithmetic.
Looked for the boy who was hanging his head
low,
More trophies than ideas. To follow
their pretence.
With a scowl in his
pocket and a smile on his face
He followed
with obidience
And fell in the Nettles.
Afterwards those spikey whispers said he
bought his own rope.
And skipped the bits
they loathed.
Didn't scramble to find a
dock leaf to capture back our hope
To
advice his mind had closed
He lost all of
his footholes.
He was a
toothpick!
And the garlic and the cinder
upon the path
Had failed to blunt or hinder
the slow collapse
Clinging to the doorframe
he was dragged
Off to a reminder of where
he had been.
With a smile in his
pocket
And a scowl on his face
He had
nowhere to flee
So sat content in the
Nettles.
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