Croesus After Euripides Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Were I as Croesus rich,
of this wide Earth high lord,
no dearth of golden hoard
stored, still for Youth I’d pitch
all that the Fates afford
compared to health, wealth’s gaud!

Age sows Death’s final stitch,
with no more bed and board,
prayers fail though heavenward
some say the soul soars: kitsch!
Religion is a fraud,
strikes needy [g]reedy chord.

Men oft themselves bewitch
upon life’s chequerboard
with theories untoward
where black is white, the which
they hasten to record
in letters long as broad.

Longevity’s an itch
which seldom is ignored.
all are of one accord
for each needs find his niche.
but Time’s Man’s overlord,
night seems day dream’s reward!

For pauper prince would switch
when shown the silken cord,
once Styx is crossed, bark moored,
who’s sure of karmic hitch?
Each innings soon is scored
by umpire’s sickle sword.

For proud, for crowd, one ditch.
Both hated and adored
exploiter, overawed,
exploited and abhorred,
as puppets dangle, twitch,
til Judy, Punch are stored,
bark silent, earth berth sward.

There’s no failsafe sales’ pitch,
the priest, libation poured,
agnostic, sermon snored,
all end when’s pulled the switch,
explorer and explored
sleep soundless, by Time bored.