A Fatal Holiday Poem by George Samuel

No break today,
But night fall;
Before the cock calls,
Warming beneath the sun;
Which earlier sat upon.

The furious feed by noon,
While black bowels await the moon;
Their sunshine hold the revenge to starve,
The feeble nerves;
Withered and weak.

For none doth seek,
This fatal holiday of bread;
That turn white eyes red,
They find courage to gaze;
At the ought of yonder blaze.

The torturing face of the sun,
Shall break like a war gun;
Set on course in battle,
Even the warfare against cattles;
Grazing the final hour.