When Fatwick turned forty he busted a chair—
he leveled his weight and, with nobody there,
stomped the thin top and splintered the frame;
only the rope would stymie his fall, the same
broken thread that coiled in the crash, the same
foolish prop that besmirched the endgame:
‘the fatness prevailed once again,’ said the chair,
which rolled with the groan in the sullen air.
But Fatwick was hardly a mountainous man;
he wasn’t real thin or infirm—then again…
all he assumed in the course of his veins
made him a ghoul, gnarled hands on the reigns,
pulling a whelp-ass toward dubious gains.
Ozymandias of fruitless demesne:
A colonel of nothing but hourglass sand,
he wasn’t as fat as his desert command.
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