[An exercise in cribbing another poem’s metrical patterns. – Owen]
Tell a tale of tall trees,
A thicket full of woe;
Shadows in the black land,
Miles yet to go.
When the shadows moved, then,
The earth began to see —
Wasn’t that the oddest place
For you and me to be?
For you were in your waiting-phase
Waiting in a fashion,
And I was in a torpor
Longing after passion,
So we were in the orchard
Looking for a sign,
When in came the locusts
Who drank all our wine.
Four and twenty black birds? But why ever was that in your mind? wonderful verse- i like yours.
Must be some sketchy locusts.
All the well behaved, properly raised locusts got jobs in agriculture.
Bunch of fuds.