in a tavern somewhere called the bag of nails
was a bank of cloud, the lair of the bear
he chain smoked so bad he’d light the whole box
and chat up the fox working the bar

a wretched man, we heard him to say, was he
an astute man, we sniffed his way, would he be
if in tongue lashing’s stead he regained face
and chose to be dead to the ways of disgrace

“what would you know of grace?” he asked we
“i was once considered lord of the dance”
“really?” we asked, “could one fall so far off?”
then we laughed like drains as he downed one last pint

a wretched man, we heard him to say, was he
but a blessed man, we ought to have said, was he
a nazarene broke bread, bled wine in his place
weighed with the dead, and waived time and space

but wretches would not share grace with the wretched
so a lorry got him

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2014