Article: The Wolves and the Poets.(Poem)

 
THE WOLVES AND THE POETS 
 
   The wolves asleep on the forest floor are dreaming of their mothers, 
   Their flanks a-gleam in the silvered beams of an unremarkable moon. 
   All the poets are good of course and some are better than others. 
   Nothing is going to happen now though something will happen soon. 
 
   The pirate mice in their pirate sloops are sailing down the gutter 
   And the Gorgonzola (that holy roller) is sentenced to walk the 
   plank. 
   All the poets are fat of course and some are as fat as butter, 
   If they're short of breath and they're pale as death they've only 
   themselves to thank. 
 
   Though the city-slickers are meek as vicars, the peasants ...

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