A watched pot never weeps
And what we say on winter days
is forgotten in our sleeps
or lost in ordinary ways.
Old dogs are already taught;
and whether good is bark or bite,
every moment is full and fraught
with our forgotten, irritated smite.
*******
On another note:
All the King’s men might heal
hurt the royal dispatch brings
by turning from sycophantic kneel
to the benevolent task of killing kings.
Home of Have, Poems by Lee Robison 