Krapkin

Briskly robust

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MEANWHILE the Mongolians gathered
eyes of eyetrees, peeled them,
ate them.
Ruining the feast day.

Mongolians overran Krapkin.
Shiny nostrils - quarange bagpipes.
Running down hills excited, screaming.
Their leader droned Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Peeling them - not eating
in that overgrown orchard around Krapkin.
Throwing on the clay for better grip
eyetree branches - each other's corpses.

Coming at the city they trampled the
Monumental weeds, annoying Krapkin
with silent giggles, nudging,
poking fun in the distance.

The Mongol leader, rolling onward
chewed the Weed distastefully,
squashing fruitful pastures,
religiously exploring 7 Avenues of Escape.

Local peasants took fatal pitchforks,
sat around the city walls
cracked nutes, waiting, swung their feet,
climbing furtively from the orchard,
shouting for Krapkin.

He sat in a corner, with harem,
peeling eyes off eyetrees, frying them
(choicest near the roots)
picnicking till the moment was ripe.

All were somehow hoping for the best
(though expecting to be fried)
spoiling the points on pitchforks,
jabbing them into clay.

Krapkin, eyebrowless, glanced up
sneering at the raspberry-rabble
who hopped up and down in a frenzy
eating charcoal sandwiches.

GO HOME! he intoned.
LEAVE OFF CARVING
INITIALS IN THE WALL.
JUMP RIGHT DOWN
AND PLAY DARTS.
LEAVE IT TO ME.
SINGLEHANDED, I'LL DEFEAT THE MONGOLS.

So saying, he knotted his one right hand
behind his back, humming the National Aria,
marching to and fro in that orchard,
licking his fingers for luck,
beating a path through damp Weeds,
with a hacked-off eyetree underarm
and a harem-cage at his belt.

With leaves from that eyetree
he swept up clouds of jealousy
throwing dust in Mongol faces
routing the enemy, shouting of victory.

The dirty peasants cheered for Krapkin.
Their National Hero named the city.
He who rendered satisfaction
to the pitchforks-orchard.

Dennis List