Closing Time at The Dead Poets Karaoke Bar

It was the year of The Poetry Famine,
Metaphor blight drowned
Pearled-ships of blighty.
 
Crops circled, as a hundred hand clock,
Fields of rotting cocks & bowdlerised dream.
On broken limbs, retracing hesitant paths
Where the steps were worn, the poets broke bread.  
 
Full fathom fallow,
Poisoned (ch)Alice daggered the
Soft marrow of each rabbit hole,
An iambic immortelle always exists
In the silence between silver flutter of words.
 
Hands which clutched the quill
Sewed sail-cloths through the vines
Of a delicate wave, stitched purple
Inside the serried ranks of bone.
 
Town crier buckled his throat
To the trails of the departing ravens, bellowed
“poetry has never started a revolution”
& his belly exploded into…… a thousand stanza shards.  
Gunpowder rain swept the glass into gutters.
 
BANG!
BANG!
We were all dead anyway.