By Hook or By Crook

Frost vs Nixon

 

Smashed in riotous circumstances,

he wobbled at every function

fanatically followed by “the sheep”

he called them; and they followed

bleating their two-bit ambitions

in the wake of his rising star.

 

He really didn’t care;

they liked the money,

he liked the company,

it was lonely at the top.

He popped another

and dove right in.

 

The flock grew infamous behind him,

braying loudly, squabbling furiously,

eager to sup from the hand that fed

too busy clutching at bottles instead,

fighting dirty, spreading muck and filth,

he was theirs, at least in their heads.

 

They really didn’t care,

his cash stopped flowing,

he was empty inside,

they’d drunk him dry.

They waved goodbye

 

The shepherd cried out

but nobody listened;

it was all just an act,

the boy who cried wolf,

nominated by the Academy

consumed by the herd.

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Heroes is a TV Show, Legends Never Die

St. Michaels Tower sits watching
the black and white cows grazing
upon the bright green fields leading
us on through the gates of Avalon
sat lonely atop the mighty Tor,
rising high above rows of pylons
that thread the emerald pastures
between busy roads and hedgerows.

The midday sun casts a long shadow,
the charcoal outline of the old yew tree
draped delicately across dotted nettles,
providing shelter for the aged weary
trudging through the land of faeries,
tracing King Arthur’s deep footsteps
through the ageless fields of Avalon,
through many seasons born and gone,

the famed sword lives on,
set into stone
buried beneath the roundabout.