WHEN LORD MONGREL MUSES
O, How can I not, with these blue bellies bursting
(with blue bellies bursting through balustrade's barrel,
with corpuscle's chorus in consonant carol),
sing hymns of unending impending imperil
that dress all the despots in jester's apparel?
I can't. For when Lord Mongrel muses, with song
full with trumpets and drums:
It seems ev'ry word that I utter is wrong;
all my fingers are thumbs;
ev'ry pleasure I feel is pain;
ev'ry pearl that I prize is plain.
How can I stay silent with ne'er-do-wells nursing
(with ne'er-do-wells nursing) on naughahyde polyp
with feet poised and panting and waiting to crawl up
on bomb-bitten breasts to deliver a whallop
to any soul doling out less than a dollop?
I can. For when Lord Mongrel muses, with fists,
I clamp down all my birds.
He kills. With his tongue like a jack-knife he twists
any Sword into Words.
Ev'ry pearl that I prize is plain;
Ev'ry poet I praise: inane.
How can I abstain with my head still immersing
(my head still immersing) in poppycock acid,
that backwash of crook's tears from Pieties Flaccid
employed to make demonic killers seem placid
which ages and cures to a digestive rancid?
I can. For when Lord Mongrel muses, with teeth
sawed or broken in shards,
All trite, verseless curses I've hid far beneath
all get blessed by his bards.
Ev'ry poet I praise (is) inane;
Ev'ry Christ that I kiss is Cain.
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