Squirrel: Book III

by John Keats Lang

There are those who fly it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing: yet those who unfurl
Their vanity tails, to browse away
The comfortable bark and smoothy acorn
 O torturing fact!

Teetering branches
That, through an idiot blink, a misfired trigger
Fire-branded hunters  sear up and singe
A maple tree's wide ripe squirrely hopes.

With not a tongue
Oh, sanctuary of splendour, not a sight
Able to face an owl or a drone at night,

Bleary-eyed no news nations,
Where crowns celebrate flacons .
Unleashed beasts,

Fearfully nod to the acorn tree

Tip-toeing the dull skies 

Gathering strength like  the

Perch of a pole vaulter

These fierce intoxicating tones

Of trumpets, shouting after bamboozling baboons

With humming cannons that will moan

When unwakeful ears

Clap like thunder in 

Babylon.

Are these regalities gilded mask offerings?

Are these seatible unscaleable thrones

The constant spell of the ethereal squirrel?

Or can a ladder be birthed to approach the 

Abysm of he who hums, mouths and kisses the beloved Acorn?

Oh Apollo!

As bees gorge their cells

Thy sweet cream sickle  smoothie is thine

When thy gold breath reverberates like

The moaning squirrel

No tail is more resplendent

No cheek is more cheeky

Than yours that blesses  

Spatially

Sorted nuts in their plutonic and nutritional order.