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At the Metropolitan Gallery

98 words

I.
What will they say of us,
those who soon will come after
we lie dead in our pus,

our decadent bad art
that evokes a cuckold’s laughter?
Our people will depart

this vale, too, like a worm,
but seem much, so much dafter,
gone before their term.

II.
Orcs lay siege to our walls
and yet our Pope’s a shafter
who does not heed our calls.

There are no pearly gates.
No bearded kind old Crafter
looks over our sad fates.

May our best, our strong,
man window, gun and rafter.
Life is short, art is long.

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2 Comments

  1. Scott Chauncey Munso
    Posted September 8, 2017 at 11:14 pm | Permalink

    A fine poem indeed. However, shouldn’t the spelling of the last word in the third line be “pus”? Or is it a British spelling I am not familiar with?

  2. BroncoColorado
    Posted September 8, 2017 at 4:04 am | Permalink

    A moving poem. Almost as good as the one, (can’t recall the title), where Leo describes the wholesome farming people of the Baltic region whose main concern after caring for their families was the keeping of bees and the turning of cheeses.
    I enrages me to think of these fine people, and all indigenous Europeans, are now in the cross-hairs of the globalist’s extinction plans.
    “May our best, our strong, man window, gun and rafter”. Very true. We didn’t seek this path, but it will become the only one open to us.

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