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I
i thought i’d write a little ditty -
how come life turns out so shitty?
but then i stopped to really think:
it is because the others stink
(as well)
II
this prompts the use of far more lines.
the muse, enchanted, now defines
a chant of truly epic grace
where gods make battle for a place
(again)
to speak a lesser means of verse
must unleash the doggerel curse -
thoughts intended for great splendour
slurred by drunks out on a bender
(tiresome drunks at that)
the form required so realises
a lilt the layman oft despises
where "o’er" and "ne’er" are frequent guests
and heroes slain in dragon quests
(temporarily at least)
thus did prometheus entangle
zeus in a domestic wrangle,
thus was achilles brought to heel
by homer in that trojan deal
(paris done it)
the epic style, so unfettered,
is a voice cannot be bettered.
so why should any lesser art
restrain the beat of modern heart?
(it shouldn't)
III
so lo! tho’ not of stable bred,
altho’ not raiséd from the dead,
tho’ not graced with prophet power
i choose this voice upon my hour.
IV
though scorned so many and loved so much,
with both medusa and the midas touch,
should we choose to repine away
or stand to face our judgement day?
do we, straining, lift the veil of isis
or lie back: succumb to mid-life crisis?
proclaim the time dies nefasti
but croak for want of elastoplasti?
tossed on the horns of hamlet’s dilemma
declare “we are” without a tremor?
to sneer at prufrock: “eat the peach”
who are we to preach such speech?
gamble all on legs of stone
or settle on the dice now thrown?
slowly greying, tea and schmaltz:
become spectators of the waltz.
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
snowmen melt and tin men rust.
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