Sting in the Tail [sonnet]
He opened the box, carefully looked inside
then sniffed the air which seemed to have no scent
of any former mouldy calcified
unedifying, ossified event.
He climbed into the darkness which he knew
from many other boxes of this kind.
Believing he could trust his overview
he danced with joy — but soon was undermined.
Just when he thought that all was light and clear
some pointed thing swept through the air above
and struck his bare unguarded fearless rear
(it didn’t feel like friendship or like love).
So from now on he has no more excuse.
Such nicely-packaged scorpions won’t seduce.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 