May 12, 2020
1 min read
Not My Monkeys
A poem
roll up, roll up with your pots and your pans
and fall into step with the marching band
in the Big Top the crowds are filling the aisles
where the apothecary peddles his liniment vials
the dwarves with their sticks are poking the bear
in the shadows the mystic is combing her hair
the ringmaster strides over blood-soaked…
