Whimsy, With A Ballsy Whimper

To call oneself a poet and disgrace
the trade with tripe like that is infamy
allayed within a wearisome conceit.

What do you call it then? Effete? The
words you use do not amuse, in fact
I’d say that surely they emasculate.

A neuter state is not a great example
of pure comedy – and laughter turns on
disbelief; for sure, the laughs are there,

– the farce you writ just bellows it. But
what’s it mean they ask? A search for
shades of relevance reveals the hints

to be just tones of grey. So look out on
a summer’s day with glasses roseate,
where colours play alive with vibrancy

in eyes that see the whole damn scene.
Not you, you’re staid and off the wall,
so far away from what we call reality.

I guess there is a down-beat to resist,
essentially you’re full of it, and if you
care to play with poo it smothers you.

Dare try again? Try for a gender
change my man and count your balls.
The toll’s the same with one or more...
© 25 January 2008, I. D. Carswell