Nov 3, 2013

A Poet Runs Through It - Rick Fisk

Forgive my punny fun
err I do not claim to be a priest
or butchy nun who soundly strikes
your wrist; trangressions won

Soundly trounced the tears do roll
down rosy cheeks from eyes of coal
bitter the taste bitten tongues
will not console

One heart broken in
the blood sweet in spirit
irony in taste from ancient, secret sin
or perhaps its just the gin

Emotion flows forth with rhyme
the arrow pierced aft and
shy the target's center spline
"amiss" the plaintive archer's whine

Afar, yon and away
turmoil, din, decay
foreswear comity's display, touche
mephistipholes toupe

Fake hair on devil's brow
combover's fashion befitting nothing
nobody not even ewe
looks trump your purse of sow

Devolve you verse of jest
to wicket scenes of mirth
haughtier brains may soon digest
lunch, belch, salami guessed

"Stop!" Cry more serious in art
with critic's eye warring, warding
"Offal," they accuse but compelled
am I, the horse will die

Whinny you symbol, crash
beneath my blows
Pegasus wouldn't lie down so easily
with G.I. sloppy joes or missile toes

Sometimes pane must yield to laughter
condensation stains its glass with 
tears and it wants to shatter so fragile
is the heart rain batters

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