He licks his black arrows on the cliff, <br />Doesn’t <br />He: and he has so many things to say <br />While I am drunk and potbellied on the old <br />Truck and full of his <br />Fantasy and the rivers down into her libertarian <br />Orchid farm: <br />You can get three for a dollar <br />And I think of Sharon under the light of the moon, <br />While is quiver is full and hunting the dragon <br />By the light of the moon <br />And it is so sick from drinking so much water, <br />And all of the five armies are sick, <br />And only the Hobbit is picking locks and Federico Garcia <br />Lorco is sleeping drunken with bullet holes <br />Underneath his olive tree, <br />As I should soon be sleeping, though I have a few more <br />To publish anonymously, <br />As these dirty nailed fingers run like springtime afterbirth, ’ <br />As I think of her unwritten of, serving the effervescing <br />Systems of the ghostly sailors, <br />Her romantic thorns never ever spoken of by <br />JRR Tolkien, <br />And yet I love her, and keep on riding barrels for her long <br />After the glorious denouement and the burial <br />Of the king of the dwarves.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-king-of-the-dwarves/
