As
the world turns slowly again viridian
His
realm divides between English and Latin.
Decide
which deicide keeps the medium,
Stave
off lunacy depicting the patterns.
Country
is fresh this day yet town is thronged
With
his voice varieties, heard undercover.
Comedy
like tragedy is by everyone tongued.
Soul
transforms in company of a lover.
Sphery,
thrumming, waxen, plain-song, cuckoo,
His
words catch and flame on the burning deck.
“It
is not enough to speak, but to speak true,”
His
creed, his everyday reality check.
He
is catholic to a fault, perhaps.
He
is fissile and a pratfall chap.
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