Canary human-birds,
feeding on my marriage—sugar and seed.
Parrots have crackers to crunch;
the poodles tell me noodles.
Gossips sleep in stables,
lies arranged on their dining tables.
But no one supposes…
I’d know only my marriage they opposed.
Roost upon rails,
dashboards in pails.
I waited for years and years,
turned into bacteria,
fungi, and yeast.
Pigs took to pen;
chickens united with hens,
only to defame my ox…
Some bestraddle on a fox.
As for the camel,
she’s been ridden by families—
any shape, they tell, does for me.
I smelled my marriage, knowing she’s meant for me,
but her family got a snake—lumpy
and bumpy and humpy.
As the night grew more dreary,
trampling drums of my marriage sounded nearer.
The storm grew loud apace;
in the scowl of heaven, each face.
O Lady Sowe, thee!
Haste, she cries,
through tempest meeting the ranging of the skies.
But not an angry father she has;
she has a caring mother.
Enemies make-believe them stormy land,
crafted with the human hand.
Twain vain: the return of aid preventing,
and she was left lamenting.
But I’ll forgive your Highland chief
and love your mother,
for enemies and their mischief.
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