A cow will never languish in a snail’s shell.
A dragon would look silly in a spider’s web.
A horse cannot be hiding in a pimpernel.
A skunk could not be snoring in a featherbed.
Contrary to what most normal people claim,
square pegs can neatly fit in rounded holes.
The problem’s not the fit but wasted space
spent trying to play some unbecoming roles.
The stage was lit; the actor bowed
although the curtain wasn’t up
(and neither would it ever be
for grudging hands controlled the ropes)
despite the thirsty crowd
who hadn’t yet determined
what the odour of that odeon was;
nor had they so far realised
the artless content of their lives
was sternly supervised by wilful
blind and desiccated misanthropes.
He trod the boards behind that bricked-up screen
reciting lines which came into his head.
There were no props — a lunarscape, the scene;
though in his heart he saw a riverbed.
As words fell from his mouth they turned to flows
of aqueous elixir in the dirt.
In time it formed a runnel with his prose;
the curtain people that did disconcert!
Just then an agent turned up in the wings.
He beckoned to the player with his hand:
“I’m looking for a waterfall which sings
to be a vagrant in a hinterland”.
The actor looked with sadness at the drape;
but in his mind some plans were taking shape.
© Alan Morrison, 2013