Was old and dapper
Sprung from dusty maps and treasure
The crows called as if clever
The hands, swollen-worn, deformed, let out the gun crack clap
And the crows swarmed his face (forlorn)
Their wings, mad brushes, returned his features to their beaming youth
And he spit out, for the new polish by tooth
The rain dripped from his face
Lightning flashed
But it just wasn’t Ernest
He did the same nervous twitch
When he was asked to close the curtain
But Ernest it still wasn’t
In fact it was
The furthest from Ernest he’d gotten
When all the drama had scattered
He’d talk ĺong
Into the gramophone
Knowing that wasn’t
Its operation
It was Ernest
But not
The right situation