Treasure Island

David McLansky

(5/24/1944 / New York City)


Indeed, my Lord,
You seem detached,
Yet you answer with intense dispatch,
One minute merry
And resolute,
The next withdrawn
Denying pursuit.
Do you study hard
To be so perverse
Your pregnant answers
Seem rehearsed.
Is it your intention
To repute your oaths,
Being so contrary,
Well, though I'm loath,
I'll return your promises
With no interest paid,
Like a borrowed garment
Just slightly frayed.

Again this rage
And comdemnation, !
Would you fault a knave
An entire nation?
These exaggerated airs
These dramatic poses,
This intense despair,
These thorny roses.
You never loved?
You made me so believe
When I embraced your love
You seemed relieved;
Now this denial
This swift recall,
Now you insist
I never loved at all!
Though I am young,
An unskilled maid,
These games ill-played,
Echoed in this hall,
Make me think you are mad,
Oh, how you rave.
You foam, you spit,
What words you splatter,
In passion's fit
Oh what is the matter?
Your bonds in me
I do release;
Oh, let me go
To live in peace.

Submitted: Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, March 12, 2014

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