Greetings, Jim!
Do Hasty Harm
A voice arose among the melting
crystals on the boughs—
an aged feline that was belting
out great sad meows.
He had good cause for moaning so,
for he could not climb down
to the mucky slush and yellow snow
that overspread the town.
What was he doing on that tree,
not being crow or thrush?
He caroled in a sour key.
I wanted him to hush.
Leaning upon the coppice gate
in the weakening eye of day,
I aimed my shotgun at him straight
and let the pellets spray.
______________________
Parody of “The Darkling Thrush.”
The title is an anagram of Thomas Hardy.
(Appeared in The Spectator.)
Last edited by Martin Elster; 08-19-2020 at 02:13 PM.
|