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The Pink Crown Comes

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  • The Pink Crown Comes

    The Sighting
    Along I came, limbs swinging free,
    My course stretched out in front of me.
    Ten miles o'er hill, down glen and dale
    'Cross streams, through wind and rain and hail,
    I planned to march and not one soul
    Could I see. I began my stroll,
    Whilst keeping time to a blithe beat,
    But I had not yet gained twelve feet,
    When high o'er the tune in my ears,
    I heard a sound that raised my fears:
    The chitter-chatter of voiced sounds!
    This noise, not strange in my surrounds,
    And welcome in times not long past,
    Now turned my look to one aghast
    As I snapped my neck back to see
    A trekking troupe not far from me.
    'Good grief!' I yelped for hanging high
    Above them, blotting the grey sky,
    Was the far-fetched source of my fear.
    It hovered, vivid and austere -
    A crown of pink which spat and spew
    And spilled and shed a slimy slew
    Of drops on all who stood below-
    The sickly spawn which presaged woe.

    The Flight
    I turned rudely and, with no shame,
    My gentle stroll, a sprint became.
    I was now locked in a wild race
    With those foul drops which flew apace
    With the cold wind which rapped my back.
    This battery did not slake or slack
    And all the while it wailed: "It comes,
    The Crown of Pink!" Like marching drums,
    Each word spurred my steps as I leapt
    From ridge to trench, and blindly stepped
    Through muddy marsh and boggy peat
    As fast and as far as my feet,
    Soaked through and sodden carried me.
    Thrice, o'er my shoulder I did peer
    And, though the host did not appear,
    There on the verges of my sight,
    The Crown of Pink hung - that grim blight!
    By raindrops rapped, by tailwind whipped,
    Ahead I strove, and slipped and tripped,
    Till in two hours my journey's end
    I reached (three hours, my average spend!)
    But as my feet drew near my door,
    And my heart beat a smoother score,
    In my ears wailed the wind once more,
    "The Crown of Pink comes!" From each pore
    Of mine, sweat poured as I turned round
    To see the spore had made up ground
    And it was bearing down on me!
    My door, I skirted and a bee
    Became as I zigzagged my way
    Up streets, down lanes, away, away!
    But still it rings the cry which numbs
    My spine: "The Crown of Pink, it comes!"
    Last edited by Raoul D'Harmental; 03-18-2020, 03:14 AM.