Curses

Since my favourite sonnet is Ozymandias, 
I'm starting with an Egyptology theme.

Like archaeologists in tombs of old

And long dead kings, I search the dark –

A Raider seeking out his fabled Ark.

But nothing here awaits me: no untold

And hidden riches, nor no pots of gold:

Just dust and fluff and little worth remark.

I cry with stymied anguish, clear and stark:

“O Hoover Bag! What secrets do you hold?”

With voice of fuzz and lint, the Bag replies:

“You’re really pretty witless for a poet –

You think you’re Howard Carter, but you’re not.

My guts hold nothing for you, no surprise;

Admit the reason why you’re here – you know it!

You’re here because you think I ate your pot”.

AB