Midnight waters sprig out
Over the grand body of earth.
How uncouth for man to shout,
“He who is of light is his own mirth.”
“In the game of rugby,” he cries
“There is only one king of the mill
To ambush the lord of the flies,
When inborn truths make their fill.”
Scant and grave, his heart quakes
At roaring bassoons sounding alarm.
In times of haste, he bakes,
Shrieking, “What is the harm?
No need to fuss under the gun.
For nowhere else can we run.”
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015