Atkin-James
Like a saint on the fire
Like a guru's funeral pyre
Just a blur
Thoughts occur
In a slur
Like a fog on the bay
Like a hog washed away
It's a mist
But the gist
Might exist
Like a cat on a rail
Like the next note up the scale
Count to ten
Pause and then
Down again
Like a poet in a loft
Like a sherbet growing soft
Easy now
You've been a wow
Take a bow