A slingshot,
To those who whittle,
Is the same
As a divining rod
That desires to fly.
Maybe a boy waits
For one to transform into the other,
Collecting small rocks
Or gullible neighbors
Who desire spiritual guidance?
They have a garden haunted by a crow
That stares them in the face
As it stalks the gourds
With a dirty fingernail
Clutched in its beak.
The idiots! Just shoo
It away, or throw a book at it.
The bible he always carries,
Provided the rubbery old man
Can let go in time.
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