Sunday, 12 February 2017

Sir Barry

He cuts a fine figure,
In his burgundy gown.
A vender of vigour.
A young frog about town.

A high social climber,
despite his wet skin,
but the servants and houseboys,
still won’t let him in.

For the folk of blue blood,
and the well-heeled young witches,
disdain folk of the mud,
the denizens of the ditches.

And so every night
Once the wine is all drunk,
he'll return to his home,
in a hollowed out trunk.

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