Crows and satyrs. Fishermen, too.
Fables and barbs. It’s all that I can do.
Master’s got himself in a stew.
Affect the all-knowing jester and you’re through.
“Tell me the one with the grapes and the fox.”
But how could I have guessed it would offend him?
Shadows, footsteps and ticking clocks,
a cup slopping over its proverbial brim.
“Aesop thinks he knows a lot.”
More than a week since the bozos emptied my pot!
“This time, however, he’s said too much.
We’ll deprive him of an audience and such.”
See? I’m a legend before I’m dead.
Aesop never amounted to more than hearsay.
Maybe they’re right. For I’ve heard it said
that the first man with a tongue was comprised of clay.
Could I summon my fables to life,
I’d know precisely how much they cared to help me.
“Dear Aesop! We’ll be the calm in your strife.
Advise us how to block this fell decree!”
The blind lady sighed as she wondered how.
The lion deep in thought put a paw to his brow.
The ox stood silent at his plow.
The teary frogs looked up at the bumbling cow.
“Go straight to Master and put on a show.”
Afterwards he had me pilloried, though.
And millennial fame doth procure no reprieve.
That Aesop, children…he was make believe.
Hounds and asses. Wagoners, too.
Born a slave. Not much else I could do.
Master put himself in a stew.
Go playing with tropes and figures and you’re through.
And you’re through with the sun,
and you’re through when you’re through.
Find some sense in nonsense and you’re through.
For either it’s history or it’s you!
Write a bunch of fables and you’re through.
And you’re through when you’re done,
and you’re through when you’re through.
And you’re through in the end.
And you’re through.