The man appears unkempt, and friendless,
Spouting rhymes in showers endless,
From a mind bereft and olden,
Showers long, unclean and golden.
I'd prefer tot hink of this
As whacko souls, taking the piss.
But I fear this flow mysterious
Is actually meant to be quite serious!
This, I fear, is shallow magic,
Mindless, numb, and somehow tragic.
That from man and woman born,
Comes the child, like April morn,
Who in parents' dreams fulfilling,
Renders verses dull and killing,
And in couplets quite frenetic,
Ruins all their hopes aesthetic.
Never mind. It's just for looks.
Nature needs her babbling brooks.
Let it babble, mindless roll,
If it calms his darkened soul,
Or sustains a broken mind,
'Til arrives a happier time.

Florence Lightener Wynde
Potmetal Baubles Renounced
Climetree-on-Impulse, 1939