A fête of decayed verse <br />engages these indigenes <br />of disgrace; there is no <br />sweet meat or bread fresh <br />on their plates but rubric <br />praise that ‘<i>if you succour <br />me then I will grace you <br />measures of the same</i>’ <br /> <br />Though ego games and <br />make-believe at best it <br />still suggests the worst <br />is yet to come – embeds <br />their blinded heads <br />in disinvested bums <br />© 7 October 2009, I. D. Carswell<br /><br />Ivan Donn Carswell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-vestment-i/
