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lyrics

Who’s that craven little scribe
chording from a hovel,
dancing on the face
of the spade of the shovel?
Squawking human while the
catbirds trill triple double double?
Truth might be a ring,
a singsong thing.
The good crow scolds the peregrine from below;
it knows the robin pinned under the toe.
Not a parry for every thrust;
sometimes thwart, sometimes shush;
sometimes the wish bone is the clavicle
of a pack animal.
Murder in the morning
to feed the young.
Strange tides amok in the
Great Unsung.
Truth might be a ring,
a singsong thing.
The I in the it in the bit
in the none.

credits

from Former Firsts, released May 1, 2020

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Steven Lambke Toronto, Ontario

Folded ticket. Lucky Numbers.

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