Dance Of The Weasel Poem by Bill Grace
Dance Of The Weasel
The evening rate being a reduced thirty five
I never even guessed how much would not thrive
Of what the great play park normally offered.
It made me wonder yet again at how great institutions
Succeed in the way in which they strive
To present themselves so well
As they cast their public spell
When fine print seems the true order of the day,
Integrity - the thing most frequently lost amid their herds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/12/2024 4:53:59 PM # 1.0.0.1119
