Circus Fleas


Counting on the jackpot, says one is a crackpot,
Out of touch with the odds of the game,
Good money after bad, he's certain to be had
In the end, "The Big Loser", his name.

Some men are ill at ease, smitten by this disease,
They cannot settle down in one place;
They hop like circus fleas, until brought to their knees,
No rainbow's pot of gold left to chase.

Following easy roads, avoiding heavy loads,
The gold rush's pioneers proclaimed,
"Rivers to Nirvana, devoid of piranha",
Ignoring the many who were maimed.

Glitter is not golden though many are beholden
To raw power inherent within,
Initial wild gladness, at the end, yields sadness
To the fool confronting his ruin.


--H. Arlequin 


 

 


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copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved