Careless Whistle

a sardonic soliloquy for the downtrodden

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I’m the poisonous arrow in Artemis’ quiver,
the eagle that feeds on Prometheus’ liver,
the hand that tears eyes from the face of Saint Lucia,
the ravenous insect devouring the fuchsia,

my gradient slopes to exquisite enigma
and deviates more than a calculus sigma,
I bathe in the bathos of life so comedic,
the skeletal frame that just ain’t orthopaedic

but fuck all the ratios, fuck all the figures,
I stand with the spades of the urban gravediggers,
we shovel the mud onto coffins of splendour
with nothing to lose and no pride to surrender

and working to bed down the dead as we whistle,
our cynical outlook like barbs of a thistle,
we measure the margin of time as it passes-
the grave doesn’t care about riches nor classes.