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Poetry
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| To a Bat | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||||||
| 20 November 2006 | ||||||||||||
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A bat, a bat, No more, no less than that, A mouse with membrane hands, Who flies and never lands, But hangs in cold inversion, Her brain in blood immersion, Surviving frigid hibernation, Sustained by thoughts above her station! To criticise the likes of me! Me! A bard, a bard, One held in high regard! These hands were made for writing verse, Burns sent his blessed soul to course, Through every sinew, every vein, And every quarter of my brain, That I might see his work is done, A man’s a man, a son’s a son, A bat is only that. A bat. Oli (20/11/06)
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