Spin

Nothing pleases,

I’m all out;

it’s buried,

under the tumultuous

strain–

Strained,

like the curds

of yesterday,

making our children

fat, bold and kind.

Oh yes,

there’s a sigh

as she washes

the colonel’s matted hair

“It’s atrocious, the weather,”

he sneers at the grave.

Spins

Spins

Spinsters

I am not

So go get your bullets

’cause I’m all 

out

of

blades.