Philosophyical Poetry

Cabaret Ludwig

 

I’ll fly off to a fjord in Norway

Post “Oh the pain” above the doorway

If you insist on going your way,

                        For this is not a duck.

 

That is what cowards say, and realists

Who run away, shun the appeal its

Rare white fur holds, although they fell it’s

                        A rabbit full of pluck.

 

Let’s multiply, let’s twitch our noses,

Let’s walk among the night’s dark roses,

Though where the oldest story goes is

                        A place where tongues migh cluck.

 

I’ve had my share of quacks and hisses;

Whereof mouth cannot speak, it kisses;

Hop to it, man, and realize this is

                        A lovely bit of luck.

 

 

Rachel Wetzsteon