110
what's o'clock
To chip a quondam purpose to a grin
Was sport to make him hug his pointed knees
And rock for very glee, until his thighs
Were bruised with teetering upon the floor
Whose only cushion was the heaped-up dust.
How good to lick the sauce from all those years
And leave them icy bare and shivering,
With no illusion for their nakedness,
Turned playthings for a man of doting age
Who had no other joy but these, and sleep.
Was sport to make him hug his pointed knees
And rock for very glee, until his thighs
Were bruised with teetering upon the floor
Whose only cushion was the heaped-up dust.
How good to lick the sauce from all those years
And leave them icy bare and shivering,
With no illusion for their nakedness,
Turned playthings for a man of doting age
Who had no other joy but these, and sleep.
A little sift of daylight wandered in
Where one of the roof-tiles had blown away
And rain and sun had rotted through the wood.
This wisp of light was company to Neron.
He watched the floor-boards change from dark to glare,
Saw the glow creep upon a cock of dust
And leave it flat in shadow, traced its course
Where one of the roof-tiles had blown away
And rain and sun had rotted through the wood.
This wisp of light was company to Neron.
He watched the floor-boards change from dark to glare,
Saw the glow creep upon a cock of dust
And leave it flat in shadow, traced its course
