Beat around it, while it burns.

It may hide a path of turns.

This way, that way, round we go!

Where it ends, we shall not know.

 

Singing eagles hide in the sticks.

Two are caught by hands & tricks.

They sing no more, their tune was lame.

To war, we went, to their song of blame…

 

Relax a while, perhaps down under?

The bushes grow & rest asunder.

Jamaican folk say bushes have ears…

Sicilians use them to hide their fears.

 

Shakespeare noted that they made good friends…

To speak of war and dividends.

The proverbial bush has lived, was spurned.

Secretly? It never burned.

 

© The Secret Poetess, May 2017

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