The Black DeathA Poem by W. Barrett MunnOriginally published in Copperfield Review Quarterly Winter 2022THE BLACK DEATH
The Black Death, not a rat brung it, but fleas that. Fleas, I say, miserable creatures misery in their wake and sailin' with us.
Keep a clean bunk they says, Oh, Aye, and who has time for a clean bunk, Sir? Rats, and fleas. Not I. Ship is my home, my length, my width, tacking windward carryin' along Black Death
The first mate knows when he's sailin' with risk there's danger signs in winds and seas, but we're bringin' a cruel fate to an innocent land with our hold filled with Black Tragedy. © 2022 W. Barrett MunnReviews
|
StatsAuthorW. Barrett MunnTULSA, OKAboutI'm Winston. I try to write poems that are "hard to get rid of," as Carl Sandburg put it. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|