Child’s Poem
O devil?
No devil behind an old oak tree;
no matter how much
I wish there could be.
O fairy?
No faeries.
No will-o-wisps in the green;
no matter how much
they call out to me.
Lacking the mysteries little boys could grasp,
an Old Plump God stands
toppled; ’spite his past.
The King of fools and liars, now limp with disease,
sold his crown to princes;
robes to the priest.
Till no more could be sold:
empty throned, hidden tombs.
Grown Old, Grown Rotten, no scepter in bone.
Liar, O he weeps, as boys grow old!
Sweet child of the stars as wisps of the green
bound from his blood
to robes who wish, misery.
Magnates of the crown
and those who are bound
to counting out his coins.
Rot’s victory
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