The critically wounded stag

by Ciarán Cork

 

How would you feel if your language wasn’t your language but

A plague?

A linguistic rat with gilded hair

Able to break your tongue            with a crimson crossed stare

The piper has joined a new dance it would seem

Into the nest, these rats                blossom              and teem

He looks around, entranced         by           eek eek eek

That soon he’s accustomed to this way that they speak, and

If only he knew that                        their tongue was not free

But with the clang of the rats, he just could not foresee

That his pipes would             rust        in the damp of the air

The once fabled piper, seemed not have a care

Still somehow,                  he struggles on                       to play his fabled tune

 

EEK EEK EEK!

They chant to his jarring song, laughing while he plays

With each salivary rasp, his face becomes the colour of his flag

Yet still, he fails to see it,                   the         critically                wounded                stag