Your Poetry Dot Com - Ringleader

No more frigid morns
This is the joy you could never forge
These are the High Republic’s horns
For feasts too rarefied to gorge

And when you bewail the king
Whose features seem to be his peers’
Amplified within this cohort-ring
Their countenances pioneers

He ventures ever on West
With avarice in reddest hair
And longest nose at the behest
Of snorting and sniveling to scare

This is the class of joy you sneak
And drench sadness in warm exchange
The jokes chastened, but not unique
And out of tundra’s icy range

Your riddled fingers look to steal
The hearts of others warm-encased
In atmosphere convivial
With the punch and punchlines laced

Make up for every trauma, dearth
The squalid with the right to squander
Huddle up by the sizzling hearth
The invalid who lives to ponder

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