The Weft

The chorus gave the Hymn of Joy
their everything. The chapel rang.
I wrote a poem today, oh boy:

a picnic trip by charabanc
where some benighted yokel stole
their everything. The chapel rang

to Bach and alien strains. My soul
transported from the little world
where some benighted yokel stole

the sandwiches. They caught and hurled
him through the air and served him right.
Transported from the little world,

I seemed to ride the vibrant, bright
magnificence that bore the great
hymn through the air, and served Him right.

They ducked the thieving reprobate.
The chorus gave the Hymn of Joy
magnificence. That bore, the great
'I', wrote a poem today. Oh boy.

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