Words Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Like little men with purple feet
though some with floppy ears,
they move with poise and innate grace
through common mists
and yellow fog,
possessed of restless souls
and driven by exotic sounds.
These are the words we know,
like hands across a gorge
which, cruelly, demands the toll
of sacrifice from those who pass.
The resonance of utter specificity
which shuns all shame of mediocrity,
lays open welcome laws and rules.
And,
with time and honoured gestures of sheer class
it wipes away impertinence and fools.