Gloomy Sunday

Was listening to Billie Holiday again.

Vain pheasants are weeping

Honest ant hills, streaming

Baby breaths, are creeping

Mines of vines are strangling

A mist of opening, for Spring

 

Wilt ye naught see?

Wilt ye naught vie?

Wilt ye naught scry?

On a Sunday

A Sunday's eve of Scrutiny?

 

Charmed, I'm sure

By a scoundrel so pure

In variance of an Overture

So pure, So pure

O' such Allure!

 

Mother, Mother

Come o' hither

Scurry ye way o'er

To a mellow Sunshine of Grey

Of an abstruse Goa, near-away

 

Pleased to meet your acquaintance

I am the Oracle of Incompetence

I am the Duke of Compliance

I shall raise flags of Acceptance

For one to be culled for Condolence 

 

For in a Trance of the Day

In a pique of being just Clay

In an obsolete exceptional way

To want, to need, to cry for pain

Is a gloomy, Gloomy Sunday's Play

 

Shall we be enchanted by flies?

WIll we not soar and be in a flight?

To percussions and trains of thoughts

Of thoughts! O' of the unthinkably NOT!

As of yet, paved on of drained plots…..

 

Shalt a Fairy,

A Seraphim,

A Nymph,

And a Frog,

Be wrought of much Rot.

 

 

-Leah