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(15 December 1973 / London, England)

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The Signpost

I looked at the signpost,
Consulting labors of the workers;
Much was to their taste,
Inside the working hours we agree.

I am boss and no one will state,
A river has been swallowed
With overwhelming zest,
Arriving at my destination.

They look back again in crowds,
Turbans exposed, blankets wound
Around their waist at night,
The legions of honor have dived.

I see them work at their employment,
The pastures of intellect are at bay,
Causing us to stir at the sight of sitars
That seem to entwine and lose.

This hard old work shall live,
Badges are made for you,
For you are delicious tomorrow,
And as the night has progressed.

Beauty of the art of your labor
Keeps me bashing for more,
The December tries again,
Born on it and dying on it.

I have seen too many die,
Then their fortunes have been ruined,
Linking the tortures
Of the days ahead.

Submitted: Thursday, March 07, 2013


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