I know what you had for dinner last night,
And I feel sorry for you, sitting down
To eat that crow with its greasy black wings.
There couldn't be much meat on its bones
To feed you and make you feel all right
About the way things are going.
I try hard not to speak ill of you,
And I'm capable of compassion,
Even after being on the receiving end
Of your more devious manoeuvres.
There's something sad about your scrambling
To stay on top and play by the old rules—
The game has changed and left you sitting there
With a look of dismay on your obstinate face.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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