When all else fails you can whinge about the
weather they say - like it’s a copout or safety
valve strategically placed where the inept or
conversational tragics lurk, clumsily seeking
an entrée; bit like a vegetarian at a pit roast,
dubious I sense about the degree of sear, a
mulish attempt inferencing which unseemly
ambit will work best without being damned
So what can we talk about and which topics
are banned from this august group’s tenure
on the present tense; where’s our host and
his fork, or am I intruding indecorously onto
space where only silently acquiescent male
carnivores prevail by a homily’s precedent
© 24 November 2014, I. D. Carswell
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