A Letter to Shotgun from His Knees:

Dear Sir,

Our doubt in respite,
We take great delight,
In examining your plight…so listen to we:

It can’t hardly be fair,
To crouch in despair,
With considerable air…mourning to your King!

We’re pressed to the ground
While you bay like a hound,
And make all sorts of sounds…He will sustain!

The Word is your blade,
the mind, your aid,
wield them together and be not afraid…of anything!

But your heart got divorced,
from reasoned discourse,
which made your ridicule worse…Oh, it’s happening.

If (P) then (Q)
What will you do?
Madness ensues…it’s deafening!

Only when reason
Does NOT act as treason
In any time or season…well; then you’re thinking!

But in all this remember,
To please treat us tender,
We’re not the sender…you can’t complain!

It’s not from us that your cries begin,
From the floor, through us and round-bout your chin,
The cry comes from a fire within!…so constant a flame!

So how can the tongue
Befriend heart-fire and lung
And all work as one…along with the brain?

A bit of advice from our constant work,
(Yes, even we knees have pragmatic quirks,)
Hear a wise and stable alert…


Your knees.

This entry was posted in Correspondence, Fiction / Poetry / Songs and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.


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