Boggled by little imagination,
Rumourmongers are smaller selves
Indulging in tacky hearsay.
A flash and flutter delighted by trivial fables
This villager sings bygone cantabiles
Older than the hill his hut sits on to rest.
Most days dirt climbs up his shoes
Not bothering to clean,
He spits on the narrowing which harrows
A TV kicked into a dam.
That he finds the living rather damned,
Strange electricity good for shorting sights
Startling news! He savours a sanctimonious shame
Pinning someone for the bigger fussed blame.
- Vander
Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe juices and in no relation to any actual entities).