Vassalage Poem by Hannington Mumo

I detest shadows that perpetually shift.
Elegant colors that only smile to dazzle
Innocent eyes of the mesmerized looker;
Cycling naive souls in a chimerical razzle.

I frown upon such loads of bogus laurel,
Of airy forms that are merely ephemeral;
Ersatz crowns of the most meager grade,
Won by the sword with the bluntest blade.

Give such forged stuff to the ravenous soul.
He will with a swelling appetite savor these,
And keep a remnant for tomorrow's repast;
Fat sizes of them under degrees that freeze.

Such aped styles are far from the real thing.
They splash dull chills throughout my being,
Their very phony potency belies their pomp,
Clearly detectable in their lackluster stomp.

Piping tunes are not loved for their pitch,
But for their sweet tones and tenors rich.