I envy poets who can look
At trees or clouds and write a book.
I haven’t their descriptive powers;
I see clouds and think of showers.
Mr. Kilmer (Joyce, not Val)
Saw trees in ways I never shall.
Poems are made by men like he.
Farts and vegetables? That’s me.
The house is
And still and
Still as winter
A stripeless mime
Your water cup
Trip the light-
Oh, hey, you’re up!
Happy Birthday, Terry P.!
I mean, Sir Terence, O.B.E.
You’ve made this turtle ride we’re on
More fun. I’m glad your brain’s not gone.
I’m sitting, reviewing the poems I’ve written
These past 30 months both in leisure and haste,
And I’m shocked at how often the Muses I’m bitten
By seem to be burdened with terrible taste.
A surfeit of fart jokes and flatulence references
Seeps from the screen–and how many weren’t tagged?–
Which leads me to question the topical preferences
Thus indicated. Maturity’s lagged
In the potty-penned poet who scribbled these verses.
(I realize it’s me, but the third-person’s tempting
In these circumstances.) What strikes me as worse is
The art that this fartistry’s doubtless pre-empting!
What might I have written had not my gray matter
Been thusly obsessed with post-prandial gases?
Could talent like Frost’s have been lost in the chatter
On matters as crass as a blast from the ass is?
The hours I’ve spent on the subject! I’m smarting
Considering what might have sprung from my head
If I’d focused my efforts on no-f-just-art-ing.
Coleridge had visitors; I fart instead.
I’m not the type to worry lots
About the stuffs that I’ve forgots.
I’ll be reminded, I assume,
Before I meet my mortal doom.
They say that things unknown can’t hurt
Which helps me keep my outlook pert
And purty, since the stuffs I knowed
And didn’t like, I’ve since forgoed.
If ignorance is bliss, then I
Must be a pretty blissful guy.
Can’t say for sure: The definition
Of the word is in remission.
If you’ve heard the things I’ve sayed
And feel I ought to be afraid,
I’ll thank you to keep mum about it.
Think I’d like to know? I doubt it.
Bad news shows up when it wants
So I don’t need to seek its haunts.
When it’s time, I’m sure I’ll hear.
Till then, I’ll sit and sip my beer.
It’s tricky to swear without giving offense
To a deity somewhere. The pantheon’s dense
And we mortals who worship are frequently stuck
If we’re looking to curse but don’t want to say
Something proscribed by some rules on a rock
Or that might give believers a bit of a shock.
That’s why we say “darn,” “gosh” and “jeepers” instead
Of the epithets echoing inside our heads.
Substituting a word that stands in for the name
Of the Lord or his dad is exactly the same
In the eyes of the guys in the skies, though, although
You avoided their actual sobriquets, so,
Because everyone knows whom you mean when you say
“Cheese and crackers” or “Crikey,” there’s only one way
To stay right with the Almighty Host there on high
And still curse: Ambiguity! Give it a try!
“Son of the wife of the carpenter’s dad!”
Whose name has been taken in vain, there? How bad
Can it be to refer to a person’s profession?
Is that worth a mention in Catholic confession?
In that sentence construction we don’t even know
Who’s the carpenter: Is he on high or below?
We know where we are (so it seems) with the son–
That’s a gimme–but is his name really the one
That’s been taken in vain? He’s the “son of the wife
Of the carpenter,” sure…but would you bet your life
Everlasting on whether the dad at the end
Of the phrase was that son’s, because it could depend
On the way you interpret who’s married to whom:
The wife of the dad, or the carpenter? Boom!
Your brain just exploded: The wife’s Joseph’s mother?
Would that make the son of that wife Joseph’s brother?
In which case, the dad’s Joseph’s dad, not the one
Who can damn you to Hell. Ambiguity’s fun!
I’m pre-approved for cashRewards!
And all it costs, apparently,
Is silence as we plummet towards
A grammar-free society!