This week, I’ve got another poem from my slowly unfurling fantasy world for you, and this one lends itself a bit to the mystery that you probably weren’t even considering (if you’ve caught a couple of these) – who is actually writing these poems? Not in the meta sense that I’m the one coming up with them of course, but more of a ‘who is the narrator?’ sort of deal, which I hope you find interesting as you read this week’s poem!
The Grey Gawker
The Grey Gawker is the single trusted source
of gossip, and sometimes other newsworthy items
such as news, in G——-, and for good reason:
it speaks plainly, yet with a hint of humour,
and the good little mortals eat it up.
They don’t need to see the face of the editor,
the ‘M.N.’ who delivers news of their fates
on any particular day, week, month, year,
with a witty word and a commissioned comic,
to know that M.N. is the one to listen to.
The one to trust, to pay a penny for,
to pass around of an evening, or a morning,
when sat at the dining table; anywhere
that company is to be found, you can be sure
that The Grey Gawker will make an appearance.
Some say it’ll still be around long after
G——- has descended into dust and gloom;
some say it will outlast even Hell,
and the devils who, for now, pay it no mind,
unless they’re dancing in the L—– R—-.
A verdict hasn’t been reached, as of yet,
to the particulars of The Grey Gawker‘s
promising longevity, but when that wonderful,
intellectual, silver-tongued, trustworthy
and ravishing M.N. decides, you will know too.
And knowing will cost you only a penny.
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Oskar Leonard 