Classic Poem

There goes the Piper. Call him Pan.
Fingering a cylinder of wind,
he makes the sounds he only can,
till all the beasts, after their kind—

and notably the wolf and bear,
lion and lynx and fisher-cat—
dance, with their forefeet in the air
and burning moonstone eyes half shut;

dance slowly round him in a ring
with comic tails and heads a-nod.
Poor brutes, they even try to sing. . . .
O exquisite fingers on the wood,

take care, don't loosen—lest they hear,
upon the breath within, the true,
the scrannel undercry of fear.
For they'll turn then, and murder you.











By permission of the author.