Roberta P. Feins

War, Famine, Pestilence, Bad Hair

Four by fours of the Apocalypse.
Four holy men of the pope collapse.
Four horehound drops of the apothecary.
Four hoarse men of the calypso.

Four whores of the Acropolis. Foreplay
men of the apache clits. Four horrid men
of the apotheosis. Four hoarse
buzzes of the apiary.

Four Gumbies of a Pokey’s lips.
Four horses of the Appaloosa, for
Lords of the sycophants, forepaws
meant for a pacing clip.

Four swordsmen of Appomattox.
Four symptoms of apoplexy.
Four hordesmen of the Appenines
for whom horsemeat is the proper course.

Four harps made out of paper clips,
Four horseradish of a sushi chef,
Four hoboes of all points west,
Fourteen hokums of the aphorism.

Copyright 1997, Roberta P. Feins

Roberta Feins has lived in New York, North Carolina, and (currently) in Seattle where she has worked in environmental policy, marine biology, and computer consulting. She holds a poetic license from the University of Washington Extension Creative Writing Program.

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