Colin F. Jones


Such is your calm calumny
an ignoble adverse shot,
That I am numbed quite profoundly
by such delinquent rot.
What more can a fool utter
than that which proves his ilk,
As that formed in the gutter
wrapped in a shroud of silk?
Tis not the words that matter,
‘tis the mouth that gives them voice,
That would my best view shatter
given not a favoured choice.
For I had thought that you were better,
Than what you now rejoice

Make hast into your parlour,
For there is darkness waiting there,
It seems it is your jailer,
Where you can plot your next affair.
From where else could one find pleasure,
In gathering up such rot,
Defining words to fit the measure,
Of such a devious shot?
In the light of day its nothing,
You can blow-hard till you burst,
I have now witnessed you with dismay,
At your irrational worst…
And that being all I have to say,
I accept that I’ve been cursed.

What are we then without the law,
The world would always be at war,
The only thing that holds us back,
Are the rules enforced o’er what we lack.
Oh what fine men then we would be,
From each other we would always flee,
Killing would be lots of fun
Once we thought we had the biggest gun.
Who would be safe; not one poor soul,
For being the best would be our goal,

Take away the word; where is the evil?
Take away the thought; what is it then?