is a word I swore I’d never use
neither in a poem nor for that matter
in any other kind of document.
And now I’ve broken my word — I’m sorry.
Hope the sky won’t drip with blood.
Consider, for example, the much maligned,
unfairly as it turns out, Emperor Obsidian
who was cruelly savaged by a pack of wolves.
Not to mention the embattled years of that
little known Secretary of State, Jack Obsidian.
And — be careful now ! — the illegitimate son
of Queen Victoria — the Marquis D’ Obsidian —
who threw himself into steam trains and then
moved out to Missoula. And that recently
published memoir by what’s his name —
that world famous palaeontologist?
A real page turner: My Life of Hope with Obsidian.
And let’s not forget those foot-stamping years:
Count Beauchamp and his Obsidian Blues.
Yes, I’m stirred with a strange enthusiasm.
Let me introduce you to my first born:
I’ve called him Obsidian the Terrible,
the first of many I’m almost certain — Rejoice!