Tuesday, July 31, 2007

NEW! Two poems by Daniel Pinkerton

Daniel Pinkerton


Codgers regale one another
with tales of the lodge's origins:
in the fifteenth century, it is said,
a herd of elk, weary of steppe-hopping,
dismayed by the moth-eaten stature
of their coats, the plaque on their antlers,

their vicious halitosis, claimed a beer hall
cleared out formerly, presently abandoned,
by wandering marauders or Vikings
(who were plentiful in those days).
There’s something quaint and really
quite charming about this beer hall--

let's keep it a secret, the elk agreed.
And should we initiate mankind
into our rites of poker and drinking,
the mounting of animal heads on the wall?
Sounds all right to me.
Can’t see what it could hurt.


In the fifteenth century
kings held chariot races
to decide the fate of the youngest daughter
and many suitors were flayed alive,
which made for great sport.

Chicken dinners were quite fashionable.
Monks and jesters and everyone, really,
had excellent abs, very good maces,
decent lice and head colds.

Ancient history?
I can't believe you said that--
I've a mind to take away
your internet privileges for a week.

In the olden days it was the shin vice,
the rack, the heretic's fork,
a frontal lobotomy,
then some time alone in your cell
to think about what you'd done.

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