The Pied Piper of Hamelin by Maxfield Parrish

Play on Mr. Piper,
play the songs of your calling,
the tempting lure, ensnaring
from the most wicked to the innocent.

Casualties mean nothing to the Piper,
when his whistles bury the unfortunate,
perishing amidst the earth dwellers
that have long been abandoned,
as he prances with his instrument to a wider audience.

He dances, with enough grace and masculinity
to mask the deceit, he reeks of it.
His feet move to the hymns of solid promises,
and trails of sugar sprinkle his steps.
As our knees tremble, we taste the sweetness
graciously bestowed upon us,
in hopes of not being forgotten.

His horse neighs from the high heavens,
where his throne sits.
As the sky above us remain murky, bearing pregnant clouds
with hot, humid rain escaping to singe our skin
every sunrise to sunset.

But where he sits, lightning never strikes.

Or so he thinks.

His contentment leaves us unruffled,
despite the stacks of paper thin ego littering him.

Battered, but bettering bit by bit we
“Let him play on”.
For if he stops, the rain will follow,
And flowers will wither.
Nothing will grow.

So play on, Mr. Piper.
Play on.

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