Day 13
We Were Hunters
With crystal drifts receding,
Now comes bag and boot
And bastardly stampeding
Down brown roads of loot.
The way is un-amazing,
Lined by knobby mutts.
Our hunter eyes a-blazing,
Seeking necks and butts
And bodies left uncovered,
Unbroken neath sun,
Waiting to be discovered
By Sixty-nine ones.
Despite blood and bickering,
Soakers and war cries,
We all arise, snickering,
With our clinking prize.
ABOUT THIS POETRY FORM
This poem, no clue as to how to even begin how to pronounce it, is Irish in origin.
It's form is quatrain (four line stanzas)
Rhymes: abab
7 syllables in lines one and three.
5 syllables in lines two and four.
Lines one and three end with a 3 syllable word.
Lines two and four end with a 1 syllable word.
This was kind of fun. I was going to just do one quatrain but it just kept on unwinding so I wrote 4 quatrains.
