The Old Merry-Go-Round

The old merry-go-round,
scratches into action.
Once again curling its spurs.
Horses, fixed horses.
Going nowhere but a-round.
Make them gallop.
Make them jump.
Work them though they’re crippled,
by years of repetition.
No canter to a quick end:

The cold rusted gun.
Stroking a silver mane.
The click submerged beneath
a steam organ drone.
Burned beneath a pile of wood.
Delivered to the atmosphere.
A ghost rider in the sky.

And the old merry-go-round,
scratches into action.


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