The Odeboyz Poetry Workhouse

Winds howling, frost- clad pavements,
Trees bowed over with snow and worry,
Fingertips chilled, nose frozen,
Body numbed, battered into submission.
Drink saturated Christmas brain cries, “Enough!”

Poets paralysed, jaded, doomed
A Grande Armee of poets retreating from Moscow
Quill pens clutched in fingers suffering rigor mortis,
Talent withered into husked memory.
Odeboyz cry, “Enough!”

A Winter Break is granted,
Workhouse doors are flung open,
Sunlight streams in and poets flood out.
Loved ones crowd pavements, waving bunting.
The cry goes up, “Hurrah for the Beadle!”