NR Digital

Poetry

by Donald T. Williams

LAMENT

The mole was dead upon the ground;
He did not move when he was poked.
His coat was sleek, his body round,
     His life revoked.

His parts seemed not to coincide:
His hands were stuck on at the wrist;
He was long-nosed and squinty-eyed,
     A humorist.

He looked too healthy to be dead;
His feet were white, his face was droll,
But he was tragic dust instead
     Of comic mole.

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