The Tragen Wood

Behold the mighty Tragen Wood
Where live a noble flock of thrush
That feast on endless gifts of good
Hewn from the mighty Tragen Brush.

Yet not so lucky are the larks
That lie across the river’s bank,
No fertile ash, but only sand,
And brackish waters, darkly dank.

Fly starving larks across the hell
To shelter in the Tragen wood.
So bird by bird, their numbers swell
To feast on gifts of endless good.

In anger do the thrush react,
Too fearful of the foreign flock.
So in despair they swear a pact
To place in charge a mighty hawk.

The fearsome hawk so quickly flies
To drive the larks across the bank.
Harass, give chase, then terrorize
The larks to waters darkly dank.

Emboldened by his great offence,
The hawk demands obedience.
Alarmed, the noble thrush devise
A march to force the hawk’s demise.

So bird by bird, the thrush march on
Demanding that the hawk be gone.
They tweet and tweet and stamp their feet
And dare the hawk to fight their fleet.

The sunset melts into the night,
Yet still the hawk will not take flight.
No fear has he over the thrush
Who merely tweet from underbrush.

Aghast the flock succumb to fear
And turn on thrushes weak and near:
Accusing of impurity
The thrushes’ ideology.

So dive they into pyrrhic war
Of thrush on thrush on Tragen floor.

Sweet eyes they gouge, soft bones they crush,
Till all lie dead in Tragen brush.

The hawk flies up, his battle won.
The Tragen Wood is his to run.
The mighty thrush lie in the sun.
And thus he eats them, one by one.

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