Saga Of Mt. LeConte
Benign as a grandmother from
White hair flowing to your waist,
Such a cruel and spiteful ploy
You played to mask your scowl
Miss Mt. LeConte, a spinster I
From your morose, unsociable posture,
Towering above, looking down,
Funeral garb draped to the ground.
Why would you need a man?
Even a backdrop of sun filled skies
Cannot disguise an anger you hold
Of encroachment, nor soften your
How we mortals love the game,
Dominate, control, violate -
So began my quest to convert
Your insolence to lap cat purring,
An assault to you so pitiful as an ant
On a proven path, no leader,
No follower, just an ant.
Annoyed, you then, with the back
of your hand
Of wind and snow and ice and rain,
Reached to brush me from your skirt.
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