is a word I swore I’d never use

neither in a poem nor for that matter

in any other kind of document.

And now I’ve broken my word — I’m sorry.

Hope the sky won’t drip with blood.    

 

Consider, for example, the much maligned,

unfairly as it turns out, Emperor Obsidian

who was cruelly savaged by a pack of wolves.

Not to mention the embattled years of that  

little known Secretary of State, Jack Obsidian. 

And — be careful now ! — the illegitimate son

of Queen Victoria — the Marquis D’ Obsidian —

who threw himself into steam trains and then

 

moved out to Missoula. And that recently

published memoir by what’s his name —

that world famous palaeontologist?   

A real page turner: My Life of Hope with Obsidian.

And let’s not forget those foot-stamping years:

Count Beauchamp and his Obsidian Blues.

 

Yes, I’m stirred with a strange enthusiasm.

Let me introduce you to my first born:

I’ve called him Obsidian the Terrible,

the first of many I’m almost certain — Rejoice!