Sunday, May 13, 2012

Memory of the Salt Malt

In a modern gist have we began, salt
Has mingled with the bitter grain made malt
And with both of these we begin to loose
Our sight, our senses, all of it to booze.
The music begins to sound out with groans
Of screeching nails, like a chalkboard's tones
Made apparent by the child childish prank;
We rarely put love into the old bank.
Yet still a thought remains in my head, worn,
But still, immovable, an iron will
That keeps back the cascade of raging seas
That are intoxication and bee's knees.
In modern days we have no honor; sigh
Doth the heart, for we cannot even cry.

                          Memory of the Salt Malt, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

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