twenty-seven

Like mutts on thirty-day holds at the pound,
we know our time is coming to an end.

Like everybody in the western world,
this year we haven't listened much to Drastus.

No disrespect intended, obviously.
We've only played one record this whole week,

And that one was for research, not for pleasure.
"Let's skip the details," as Mark Edwards said:

the economies of a younger, surer age.
I sing a song of Drastus, pale and wan,

whose presence in the long shadows aptly mirrors
such pictures as his music tries to conjure.

More aptly, maybe, than the music can.
For his next act, Drastus will cause a rabbit

To lay an egg, and everyone will gasp,
not least of all the rabbit, thus relieved.