Chaucer Beware

 

Wheels are turning, sprockets grinding,
As forty-one minds their springs unwinding,
Let their varied thoughts go straying,
As through the summer they all go a maying.

Forty-one hands their stories unveil,
As each little heart tells its tiny tale.
First writing, then pausing a while to think,
Forty-one minds at times on the blink.

Forty odd souls each breathe a sigh,
As minute after minute flies on by.
Then comes the end for this tired little crew;
As they lay down their pens,
Their first theme is through.

By: Carl L. Booth

  

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