A Beard White With Eld

The caesars wan come forth to peddle luck
They promise things that surely cannot be
They tread upon fresh boards laid through our muck
And supper slippered with our absentee

Their words are dripping treacle for the child
While mothers beat the rocks against the glue
An oven hidden waits for the beguiled
Their harpies stand to claim the residue

In ashes, ashes all comes tumbling down
The babies murmur, turn a closing gyre
The nursery a sad and ghostly town
Just dogs to lift a leg upon the pyre

The dogs lie down to slumber in the snow
The sled is stuck with miles still left to go