Who So Toils

The Sage once said to me

Come meet me by the tree

Where once your mother did lay

Her hen plucked by birds of prey

With an apple in her mouth

And a gaze drawn to the south

She lapped it up all the night

Till the dawn urged on her flight

I’ve a man to feed, she said

There’s fruit enough for his bed

And that honey ‘tween my thighs

Sweets the farts on his sad eyes

And sure enough did he eat

Earned a crown for a soiled seat

Where now he reigns with no care

Sits in his rain scented square

Like a boy hiding from rain

Dreaming of whores on a train

The kind who will show him things

Till the angel’s trumpet sings

But what of that sword? I ask

The Cherub with fire’s a task

So the Sage said with a smile

Come, and I’ll shave off a mile

Lure the angel to my pit

Where fires of old never quit

Dress him in horn and red scales

Give him a pitchfork of tales

And with him out of the way

You can go where mom did lay

Rest your head on the wet knoll

Look up at fruit for your soul

And grin awhile, maybe more

As you dream of what’s in store

For life is that boy in the square

On the line ‘tween love and despair

A bit too young to be so old

His soft whiskers scented, then sold

So maybe, just maybe, I’ll go

I say as I gather my crow

And pack up my leaf and my oils

Bits of charm for he who so toils

I’ll find what it’s like to be sold

For a hand job out in the cold

For a little lay in the hay

For the love that can never stay

Curled up in a coat and knickers

I’ll be that boy with heart stickers

Wanton for love and lollipops

For sin, putting out all the stops

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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