The King Of The Dwarves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

He licks his black arrows on the cliff,
Doesn’t
He: and he has so many things to say
While I am drunk and potbellied on the old
Truck and full of his
Fantasy and the rivers down into her libertarian
Orchid farm:
You can get three for a dollar
And I think of Sharon under the light of the moon,
While is quiver is full and hunting the dragon
By the light of the moon
And it is so sick from drinking so much water,
And all of the five armies are sick,
And only the Hobbit is picking locks and Federico Garcia
Lorco is sleeping drunken with bullet holes
Underneath his olive tree,
As I should soon be sleeping, though I have a few more
To publish anonymously,
As these dirty nailed fingers run like springtime afterbirth, ’
As I think of her unwritten of, serving the effervescing
Systems of the ghostly sailors,
Her romantic thorns never ever spoken of by
JRR Tolkien,
And yet I love her, and keep on riding barrels for her long
After the glorious denouement and the burial
Of the king of the dwarves.