Iron Poet, Round XIII.
Welcome to the latest round of Iron Poet, the game where you give me three words and I give you a poem. This is an adaptation of a standard writer's workshop activity, and I do not claim the original concept. I just claim to enjoy doing it
( Read more... )
Who are not feline in their very hearts;
Those few who walk its holy, hallowed hall
Learn all the truths felinity imparts.
The parsonage of dogs is never still,
Rings out with cries of ball, of boy, of bone,
And all the priesthood lies out on the hill,
And all the clergy comes to sniff the stone.
The parsonage of mice relies on cheese,
Writes scripture in the rennet and the whey,
Pairs verse and parable with hope to please
The tongues of all who come to help them pray.
The parsonage of beasts, please understand,
Is ever built on dreams, not sticks and sand.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment