Farqhar, The Unsatisfied Poem by Guy Northam

Flesh-lipped, I am skin on bone;
Tired man, moonstone
Hard, cut to crystal in old
Age. An innumerate scald;
They call me Farqhar, Farqhar
The hedge-hopping where
There is no bush, Farqhar the mad.
I laugh because they laugh;
Besides toads hop too, far enough
To be out of danger, as needs be.
I heard said that
We bards are a dying race.
It is true. I chance nothing.
The mace
Is a heavy punisher, when we poets
Offend too easily. It is our lot,
I suppose. Blue Shannon,
My master, he beats me hard,
And always my wondering faults
Are to blame. Bards should only speak
When spoken to, be silent as the bone.
I find myself struck dumb
In the corner. I am meek
In Shannon's Hall. It is never my home.