Compass

Ancient Hurdy-Gurdy Tune in C

What passed itself for love played tricks of time
while time tricked out oblivions of its play,
modelling deepest hollows of that clay
to lust for, joust out, mummery and slime.

Where we'd blink fondly at each folly past,
likely we smile wryly at the bitter twist
we grin alone, where secrets can't be missed -
white comedy's ruffed dogs, tongues panting fast,

quick sideward glances, eaters of time's scraps.
Or is it with the nose-less ones we stand,
lovers to shadow with thin, mandolin hands -
in shirtless casinos, snake-eye their craps?

There's nothing left to sell-out - ends wrung dry,
but then again, reason's long gone to cry.