Masquerade's Retort Poem by Jolomi Amuka
Masquerade's Retort
The Shepard looks over his flock
With wordily nobility.
He shrieks, he mocks,
With whips, he talks.
They baah, they rock,
Next time he draws his hand, perhaps they flee.
However, in cataclysmic times,
White sheep turn black,
And scare crows won't scare crows,
But scare folks,
Leaving room for a boisterous mortal feast.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Topic(s) of this poem: leaving
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8/28/2026 11:04:37 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
