The loneliness of the triatholic curmudgeon by Justin Walsh
When reason is an earless artist paints
When all is not and colder than a witches tit
When nothing is a much ado about
Then mischief making the likes abounds
The branches of the willow weep.
A listless one armed cuckoo creeps
And makes to track the test of time
Least said to mend this heart of mine
A picnic when one sandwich less
Fickle whimsies temperance
Is that which is when wits are sharp
‘Tis but a point lost in the dark
Such is the music of the wing-ed one
Beats out the dance of sweet repose
My heart to love at the same tone
Yet all I love I love alone
Who but the thief of one’s good sense
Laments like that forsook at lent
The arrow of the cherubs bow
Takes aim to mock and wind me so
In every land the night may take
That cherubum finds form in shape
Until the dawn returns me to
The longing that reminds me so
The course that which will never run
A posy of forget-me-nots
The rose that bloomed in its first youth
Will whither to forsake the truth
A fox is want to sit and wait
Cast ne’er a clout to May’s sweet bait
The quickening of the shadows rise
A Jekyll hides in every guise
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