Winter’s coming-coming, hide!
and no six-figured red will send her sulking
to the spring–you sling
your happiness away, you hear?
It’s the Rabid Creatures scrounging-sounding!
on the island of Moreau, and dying
or in the jailhouse of Joseph
all alone; I’d like to scream in fear
But stirring from their bedrest-heat
from sickly whispers to a soundly beat
those succubus have cried across
my ear and trees.
Christmas, Christmas turn the wail away!
i’m sad for centuries alone inside
that all my history i think and cried–
but that’s all over now; it rains a belt of snow.
Fire-siding with a bevy drink and five
good books to toil away the howling she outside.
and if it’s monday, i’m not sure i knew
what week it is, or Christmas was last night.
Though cannot help but feel-in-dreaming, I
have things to say that need the sun
but it has won, i think, that grim-faced
clouded wind; tomorrow I will bake a pie.
And sigh, for winter’s coming-coming
while I am chained in hiding, culling
memories of whiskey-drizzled spring.