All Events

It turns out (so I'm told) that all events
Are quite unlikely. Some are nondescript,
Some indistinct, some have their talons clipped,
While others congregate in desert tents
Until it's time to storm the battlements
With trebuchets, and sabres golden-tipped
To raise the havoc's tone. The dogs are whipped,
And loudly introduce the innocents.

The odds are poor that in our shaken state
Our singing will improve, or what we croon
Resembles hymns more than a Turkish prune.
We may be hammering at someone's gate
In foolish, desperate attempts to mate,
Or we might just be winking at the moon.