Gargoyle Guile

Kate O’Neil

 

Like it or not

I am glued to this spot,

left in the lurch

on a perilous perch

exposed to all weathers,

bird-bombs and feathers,

no shelter at night,

a face like a fright,

with a monstrous chin

and a phony grin

that’s just an excuse,

a ridiculous ruse

for making a drain

to spew out the rain

away from the wall

of this cold stone hall.

Day in and day out

I do nothing but spout

the run-off and grime

and the muck and the slime

from up on this roof –

I feel such a goof.

In fact, I’m offended

at being wrong-ended

with backward digestion –

so here’s a suggestion:

if means could be found

to turn me around

I could hide my face

from the human race

and I wouldn’t need words –

I’d behave like the birds

and the message I’d send

would be through my rear end.