You petty, plebeian wet-wipe,
I’m tired of your flummery; are
you witless or just insecure?
– This is insufferable tripe!
Oh – where you see flummery I
see sweetness in subtle flavours,
where you are dulled and grey
I am inflamed with good cheer.
It is not insecurity which divides
me, it is fear of your colourless
purview of all things light and
sincere; my wit is severely tried
making payment for your
humourless and snide shades
of ever condescending,
conversational arrogance.
That I am somnambulant is
my way of coping; even
asleep I’m too wise for you.
You think I give a damn?
Stateliness of her defence has
him spit and roasted, turned
to perfection, poised on the
carvery – flummery for tea.
© 2006, I.D. Carswell
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