The Peacepipe

If I were chicken I would blame it on the hormones. The androgens and company, and the testosterones. A freshly, not quite baked but budding poet, head swelled with accolades, and did he know it! The chemicals were multiplying, masses accumulated, but there were some asses who seemed to be producing something good which, as detractors had barged in and truly could stay on the site as idiosyncratic competition so it was time to target some and go out fishing. All this, mind you, takes place upon a lower level and is invisible to fishermen but not the Devil. A hook is cast toward the unsuspecting a bit of tissue torn as if one were dissecting and then cacatum hits the fan so all can see and hear and read and wallow in the misery. A target came within the sights one early morn of obvious talent, likely pretty, also foreign-born and once the shot rang out, the hook had gone what followed was complacency that carried on. False pride and stubbornness as well as guilt prevented that one small but necessary tilt of this crazed windmill with the Kaiser's colours 'twas not to be, dumbfounded there he stands and hollers. Perhaps she will bestow her innate grace and rise above insulting comments to her face so in the hope that writing these few lines will bring us poetry like noble, aging wines and end forever any hint of animosity as does befit all spirits that are truly free.