A Poem: Tres or Quinque


By Yero. 

“It’s a softy tres,” one voice said.

“No, it’s hardy quinque,” said another.

“No, softy tres was the word,” argued the fact.

“And hardy quinque is the law,” the fiddler added.

It’s not penguins ‘walk the talk,’

So these wrongs and rights all night long,

Eagle, her queenly majesty, looked down on the fat chicks,

as she displays the mystical mastery of her air swings,

flapping her wings like the queen’s plane on airborne.

The helpless mother hen on her funeral mourning,

night fall is all she wished and longed,

to put the eagle to lethal sleep by the savior darkness.

The nocturnal owl means no harm by her hooting,

but the parrot’s chatter is filthy loud, loose, and taint,

tearing with thirst the century’s umbilical bonds with her lose,

Her empty drumbeats of rage and spite,

in the shadows of dreadful night seals with leaps,

Buried truth shall ever rise again!



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