Here he lies whose foremost work it was
To pitch a sale on properties of words,
To keep a prospect occupied enough
To leave off brother-slaying with clubs and swords.
Failing in this, he took a part time job
As a dime-shop messiah; but none too well
This suited him- for as no doubt you know,
The girl Eurydice is still in hell.
The surgeon-critics most officiously
Forbade the favorite postures of his craft-
The cancer-causing faults in his technique
That "Might be cured sir, by a second draft."
Cynical and hopeless of repair
He ends in jingles and in greeting-cards,
Purchased by many a bourgeois-sweatered maenad,
And paid his place among the muted bards.
-Thomas Banks-
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
5 comments:
Here he stands whose favorite work it is
To look, with jeering, down on him who lies
Upon a bed of penny dreadful tomes.
While he leers down, the bard looks toward the skies.
Here he lies who wrote in hackneyed verse
The sentiments of suburb’ed joy and pain,
Well-knowing that the hallmark of his work
Was short and sweet--far nobler than disdain.
-----
(Still, I liked your poem.)
Thanks, Angie.
Upon my feet I stand and cast an eye
upon said tome of verse
I think it sad and lo, there is a cry!
From mine own mouth. 'Twas terse.
No poet I, as you can see,
as I go on it gets but worse.
So I'll stop. But I did like your poem and I did find it a little sad.
Greenacres-
Appreciate it. Do I by any chance know you?
Know? No.
Post a Comment