The Land of Cockayne: (By Pieter Bruegel the Elder)
by ERIC BARKER
PLUCKING at handy plenty in their dreams
The sleepers lie, all bulging at the seams,
Skin-tight as porkers fatted for the fair.
Abundance is a weight upon the air,
A roundness from which all ripeness blooms,
It hangs as thick as thunder everywhere.
There is a slug that signatures the dooms
Of sluggards stuffed like capons who’ve betrayed
Their pride of place in that essential trade
That whetted them on its exacting stone.
Its name is surfeit, dull and overgrown
As those it’s crammed so tight they can but lie
Stunned by the huge excess that weighs them down
Under the deadly, ever-ripening sky.
The sleepers lie, all bulging at the seams,
Skin-tight as porkers fatted for the fair.
Abundance is a weight upon the air,
A roundness from which all ripeness blooms,
It hangs as thick as thunder everywhere.
There is a slug that signatures the dooms
Of sluggards stuffed like capons who’ve betrayed
Their pride of place in that essential trade
That whetted them on its exacting stone.
Its name is surfeit, dull and overgrown
As those it’s crammed so tight they can but lie
Stunned by the huge excess that weighs them down
Under the deadly, ever-ripening sky.