Tales tell of him
feasting on leg of man
and flossing
with peasants' chaps.
At that he shudders.
He lifts his broad muzzle,
looking out toward the sun,
smiles at the warmth.
Turning toward the town,
he sees the men fighting again,
their libraries torched,
their brittle texts dying.
The dragon does weep.
Tonight, he falls asleep
reading of Sir Perceval,
and dreams of mutton.
No comments:
Post a Comment