The Damp Enthusiasm Of A Work Horse

They caught us young,
Doing just about nothing,
Minutes after the schooling hour,
As though naivety was born of middle age,
Bronzed by the sun and the glee,
Of the summer reign,
Pouring down the clarity of havened silk,
Across unsoiled pores,
That now hang like bags,
Of black ash from my cheekbones,

The damp enthusiasm of a work horse,
And the eggs it's laying,
Repetitive in the strain of syndrome,
As Cycles Repeat,
Those with all my money,
Have heavenly retreats,

I'm worshiping the deutschmark,
Whilst sipping from my lord's cup,
Winter brings it fragrant skylarks,
So charming and not so corrupt,

Older now but still with spirit,
Vodka being the main ghost,
That haunts and rots at the belly,
Such is the modern dieting tool,
Of the calorie dispensed,
Some days this tie feels like a noose,
We all take turns in hanging from.

© Copyright 2006 Leigh Cole

Also Published in The Synthesist, Issue 3 (PS Avalon Publishing)