A poet finds it hard to walk
with head upright amidst the jeers
when he is forced to wear
around his ancient neck
the albatross he killed
just to amuse himself.
He shot an arrow in the air
and hit the king of azure.
Its giant wings of white
around his ancient neck
like oars stick out too wide
to let him pass through any door
with head upright amidst the jeers.
The ocean hath no blast
and no choc ices.
Day after day, day after day
the cripple who once flew
sees water, water everywhere,
nor any drop to drink,
and no wafers with it:
just silly buckets on the deck.
The dead men give a groan.
It isn't any flavour,
it's sea-bird flavour,
this prince of clouds
the skinny-handed poet wears
around his ancient neck,
the albatross he killed
just to amuse himself.
Now others mimic the bowman
whose arrow killed the winged voyager,
the bird that hangs
around his ancient neck,
like gannet on a stick.
A sadder and a wiser man,
whose beard with age is hoar,
the poet knows he needs to soar,
but giant wings of white
have put an end to that,
and no bloody wafers with it.