Anthony V. S. Smith


The Old Curiosity Shop - Pushkin Sonnets - Poem by Anthony V. S. Smith

The belt around fixation mugs the crowd
From peering in like vines with tug of eye;
Bet fig for fiver that they'll not show proud,
Enough to spend more curious than why,
Dig slovenly in pockets than to look,
In one direction others having took,
A moment one would have to lift for gain,
From any oddments shown to key retain,
My asking them hath wary ooze explore,
Erased from any purpose planned propose,
You'd give a ton of lies for that compose,
Who puts that jib ashore to have implore,
The taking of the jut where freely do
Discover that there's more for idle few!

A song sheet from Dickensians oft days,
Solves purpose that the diver in who dares,
Pays little for such hoots a flute it plays,
Its shrill-like pilots firstly note, compares,
I told you what uniquely brings in sloops,
A toy that may one day hath passed on dupes,
To being not what is, but what is not,
Than rather floats on what its needs forgot,
At all if deal be done, then dig the deep,
Compartment, rattle venom clink, some change,
What nickel to the ears hast hearsed arrange,
Methinks, a visit through deserves a peep!
And bland may hath tranfixed such things as neat,
Considers grinding axe than ax discrete!

What little life thereof can thine for done,
Be mastered whilst the dust to settle most,
Of what appears like shot can from a gun,
Be sold, since when from dirt didst any host,
Refuse to have it sold? When warp invite,
Exceeds beyond the means to find too tight,
The people whom by name, a mare to those,
Whose harsh a bargain ails announce new clothes,
If change has dithered since the den and sale,
These airy notes I'd have preferred arrive
A bargain for return should it connive,
Be curious enough to have fair wail!
Yet not too poor to say my having stayed,
Describes defining futures being paid!

Remaining to be hoarded with desires,
A theme of primal bug-bears to induce
The modern rile of ways of which requires,
Cannot the bin for old time's sake reduce,
I'd deaden not the day with shop to preen,
The tad suspicion askers for pristine,
Prove gifts are nothing worth disarming well,
But kindness for stale rugs is hard to sell,
Ye bet, that what are empty days as are,
As herd of oxen pull like gathered strays;
Could status quo, more area for praise,
And give it such a name like now bazaar!
Of course since underneath the hat of who,
It was to have appeared was partly through!

A scuttle through will zing along or zoom,
Impeding like a fox, and like a bat,
Swing round as if for sonar needed room,
Or hasten like the mole unearths combat.
That wheat beneath my feet began to grow,
A riot would unfold, if should you know,
How lucky was it since that whales the size,
Of key chains -, jet set peddlers compromise,
With peg and bushel gone, I'd say the fall,
Of tat, that by the bushel load some good,
Became more new for old to set the mood,
Exciting passers by, grand curtain call!
In next to no time, would no time to be,
A curious more thrill monotony!


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, June 7, 2011



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