Wielderfight Sans Fin

You won't see a sinner dead

Or lively in these fields

Only widow trees, littered weeds,

Who slyly grieve for crows to dip

And dive beneath their leaves

And enchanted, snatch the little-wingèd

peasant pleas bound and deceived,

To rest aussi beneath barkborne brows

Wheat stalks bequeathed to stand alert

And bear the trample of the sows

Until the farming season rebelpounds

Pelting pebblestones t'our windowpanes

Shield our feeble faces, ducking, proned,

Shy and out'f any insufferable sight

With our scythes and sickles ready

We scamper quick as kids t'behead

The life-bearing backturnt crop

Our mossy manmade miracles

Trample any half stalk umbilicals

Now flattent out about the ground

Our mourning molar feet

And rite incisor scythes

Collecting appletithes

From endless fields like

Children gilded in ecstacy we

Reap, share, the petit pears

All in Eden's bliss and the

Piss-poor petal playthings paint

Their graves and seldom sorrows cease

Scattering, we sow the little fetus buds

Who sink in peace and pieces, mud

And soot and diamonds in the rough

Then cast away that cyclical stuff till

Time is ripe and rosycheekt

With angel-beaks of wrens rapt

And bend our backs to reap

The folly frantic and fulfilled

Tempus transit turneth donefor

To makedo and willto,

It's circumcircle applehearts

Of Eve and Adam's hourglass

Where'pon sandgrains are still spilled,

Nature's harrow heaving Sisyphean

L'or-forged fate we've tilled.