Classic Poem

The poor bugger drank all the time,
a lunatic on the loose;
eventually he died.

He hung his patches
of red and yellow
on the old tree shrine

over the pass
on the way to my village;
then squatted there, revenant.

Chagrined, chagrined,
the poor bugger cried.
On mist thick summer nights,

chagrined, chagrined,
the old tree cried; resuscitated
he squatted by its side.