Poem #2,831 | They shall next gather

They shall next gather
as a limping brood for
a short game of cheat
[& none will e’er win] –
they do not like others
without their ill blood –
they’ll sour fresh milk
as they pour coffees –
their stir – full acerb &
no sweetness [sugar’s
flight to hips a given] –
I feel sorry for those in
ear-shot of their clutch