The Visitants

At length, we found them in a noisome byre:
Unregistered, swathed in crawling rags,
The she soiled in the fundament of her parturition.

The father, such as we supposed, babbled
In a tongue out from the North. We beat him
South, East and West, until he learnt our manners.

The mother, suffice to say, kept schtum
As we worked upon her man, though she clung
To her spawn so tight, it took a punch to wrest

It from her breast. We gave each one a number,
Drove them to the edge of town, and sent them packing.
‘There is nothing new underneath the sun’

Or so old Ecclesiastes says.
We’re keeping it that way.

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