Arlene Weiner: John of the Lamp

John of the lamp, poor fellow,
you’re quite unstrung.
Cat or rat’s got your tongue.
Your guts are yellow,
your wide grin is hollow.

Summon the young
to a portal they, callow,
don’t fear, like us who’ve clung
to life so long.

Tomorrow your tallowy
remains will be flung
to the compost heap.

You’ll triumph, though:
when next year
a green vine will creep
over the bordered lawn
to say you were here.

From City Bird copyright Arlene Weiner 2016

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A Trumpkin