Admitting scrub ticks find you more delectable than
a mainstream audience begets no surprise; if it did,
heaven forbid. In a word t’ the wise stick with those
epicurean ticks - they’re truer to their predilections,
or basal affectations, than any literary bent wished
upon you by metrical bones of contempt; as poetry
it has unarguable rights - but where it begins there
it ends - tho’ very unlike a tick’s ministrations, and
So far from fair or foul until th’ itch to scratch bares
testimony where you’re left with rare analogies too
bizarre to be comforting - and anyway who cares if
you see thru an homology between fares and ticks
demanded in this age of intransigence - you’ll ride
the train anywhere to be free that colossal inanity
© 16 May 2016, I. D. Carswell
No comments:
Post a Comment