Abate with Me (‘Tis Eventide)

Abate with Me (’Tis Eventide)

I am dead; Mobutu lives—

God’s ill-bred: won’t say what gives.

Prose is read, except in books—

And so to bed. On tenterhooks.

Con and Canon

Villon had his Thibault d’Aussigny

To abuse, if ever wanting stimulus—

Lest blocked, he watched ink slowly soaking dye

His quills’ nibs, then rising took out his animus

To the taverns—on others—and made only pus.

Villains propped as targets may be tellingly hit

With slurs slung like slugs from a blunderbuss—

Canons most compelling when unholy writ.