I confess to you, my fellows, that I very much enjoy
Scribbling verses that yawn chasmic ’cross the page,
Yet could count and still have digits in the dole queue unemployed,
The persons who have ever once engaged.
Decapenta syllables, (mostly) iambs foot to foot,
A chariot that reels steady ’cross the room,
The bloviating bombast of a pontiff in pursuit,
Bidecadal disruptions, quarter training to their doom.
When I was young and innocent — so well warmed-over that—
I strung these cadent lines with sprightly speed
And hypersonic clipped across the sprouting green, whereat
As yet undimmed percipience went to seed.
These days I lumber slowly, ache in casting broad the germ.
I limp and catch in ruts that leave me sore.
I’ve an ebbing in motility and parts now less than firm—
A sense incipient I’ve become a bore.
Fibrous tufts of dendrites are receiving mostly noise,
Low pass attenuations sound like tin,
More gain cranked on the signal fidelity destroys,
Just take the loss in volume on the chin.
I confess to you, my fellows, that I very much adored
The poetaster’s pretense metering rime,
But the bay went in the pottage to some workaday reward,
And whatever after follows has had simmered off its shine.