Serried Rows . . .

a sort of Sonnet

How best should I, whose only weapon's wit,
Confront the challenge of these changing days?
Beneath the thin veneer of culture's skin
Lie deep unyielding roots and customed ways.

I'll use what sense I have to understand,
Within the province of my nature's skills,
Such base dynamics bred into the bone
As manifest themselves in stubborn wills.

Though never ripe, my fruit must now be picked;
My thoughts, transferred through keyboard into prose,
Must advertise themselves for your delight
Like plums on mongers' stalls in serried rows.

   And who can tell what treasures you might find
   Inside such fruit, to fill the eager mind?


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