Sunday, November 21, 2010

Ode to a Clack Pot

The crank was gorn and worked out
While the cracks plastered over his face hid the
Truth.
He skipped above the tarmac
To keep the clack pot safe to harm
For it carried Life within
But not for All.
He tapped on the floor for entrance at houses
And was often denied.
His clack pot, thrown above the Waves
Wafted down gently
Upon the tram to Brunswick.
©