Woven are the sparkling strands
In fickle, fickle hands
Wan from lifting moral lids
Proud exertion never did.
‘Twas lost the sight of shared uplift:
“Your turn first and then my shift.”
The viscera of trust has surely gone:
The Golden Goose lays no eggs
Ever on . . .
Copyright 2008 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.