The Word will come unbidden and unexpected. As you sit at your desk, or watch the last wisp of smoke from your cigarette vanish to nothingness. When the red tale-lit slipstream from the night highway reaches you and touches your sadness with thoughts of transcendence. When the din of rattling traffic makes you huddle against your balcony and conceive a vision of the streets for which the street has no name.
The patient abiding is everything...
Thomas was an obsequious porcupine
Who was the subject of envy and scorn.
His quills were longer than a cubit
And much sharper than a thorn!
One day while he lay sleeping
His porcupine compatriots plotted
To do him quite ill, yea, to trim down his quills
Until his pride wavered and rotted
Upon this Brutus of a gathering
Came a grisly and green-plumed hunter
He raised his two-barrell, and with ironic feral,
Shot the animals asunder
Thomas rose from his nap,
And trotted out from his abode,
When he came upon the sight, so bleak and so blight!,
His trot waxed and the porcupine slowed
“My poor friends,” he shrieked
As he viewed the crimson mound.
Disregard to his inane ostentation, in commemoration,
He decided to make a vow:
“As I have not the biological means,
To bury them with appropriate funereal garb,
I shall do something bold, that I shall remember ‘till old:
I shall humbly clip my barbs!”
Thomas was an obsequious porcupine
And the subject of plot to meet his end.
Yet for all his pride, though thick as a hide,
He laid down himself for his friends!