Post by mfwilkie on Jul 18, 2009 6:39:25 GMT -5
I said, '"Let's write some epigrams, but he,
the fool, mistook the invitation as
a pass. We have some history, ladies, gents.
He only owns one pair of boxer shorts.
They're white. Unused. Still in the box.
And there they'll stay. You see,
the genre of his shorts are boxer-briefs;
his everyday companion for cheap thrills,
some stretchy, cotton blend for one man's pleasure.
But I'll let him explain his IP tendencies.
His rhymes are what I am up against when courting
humor in dances writ in ten step lines.
I said, "Our epigrams are hot! They'll sell!!!
One twelve page book was all I had in mind.
She said, You're talented. Let’s write a book!
Of course, that invitation was a ploy,
a strategy to land me on her hook.
I’m sorry, mon ami. I’m not your boy.
She wants a man with boxers, loose and free.
I’m not opposed to freedom. My beliefs,
however, lie somewhere between. You see,
I’m more inclined to wearing boxer briefs.
They keep me centered. Focused. Nice and tight,
rather than swinging with abandon. Ouch!
It’s like the way that I prefer to write—
compacted gently. Power in a pouch.
It feels so right. An "in the box" constriction
is best for springing an impressive diction.
Mon petite chou. With the impressive diction.
(An educated cabbage wearing fruit
around his waist.) I like Blank Verse.
I dig uneven, metered lines in Modern Sonnets.
My Yankee stresses trip his Rebel ear
and just to get his goat, I write free verse.
and make him listen.
These things I do? They give him gas
which makes me smile.
For fun, I let him think he's teaching me.
Yes, I can put five undulating stresses in a line,
but, folks, I will not rhyme unless I have to.
Where was I? Oh, his briefs. His boxer-briefs.
He got them from his mom at Christmas. They're white, too.
I got them from my mom at Christmas? No!
They came from you, a pair in navy blue
and one in grey, completed with a bow
across the crotch. Oh, I know that you
prefer pentameter. Alas, your style
is hit-or-miss, much like my Friday nights.
The night I met you was a miss, but I’ll
just blame it on the rum and neon lights.
A freely-worded dame in formal wear
can fool a smashed practitioner of rhyme,
but only when her comely ass is bare
and he’s too drunk to manage keeping time.
Yes, I was drunk. Too drunk on rum and pleasure
to note your words (and moves) were out of measure.
Good grief! His words and wit were out of measure.
This freely-worded dame went home with Jake.
Not him. He drank twelve shots of gin and blew
what charm he had when he wlked in.
I lost all interest in his diction after three.
I know Sad Aggie took him home. She talked alot
about his unperforming ego. And bows on briefs?
No way, Jose, that it was me.
True story, now. That cockeyed barfly?
She'd pinned orgasmic hopes on him. And bows, too,
it seems. I've pictures. (What?) No one's told you?
The bows were pink, and you weren't smiling.
He could have been my Marlowe...once upon a time,
but he got drunk, confused me with a rhyme.
Confusing you with rhyme is no big deal.
You wouldn’t know a rhyme if it impaled you
Upon its pointed end. I know you feel
A little foolish since your senses failed you,
Especially when Jake could not perform.
He’s impotent in more than verse, I hear,
But I assume, at least, he kept you warm.
It’s not as though I didn’t warn you, dear.
A free verse poet like your Jake expects
his reader or his love to do the work
(especially in poetry and sex).
His style’s a drawback, baby, not a perk.
So, ditch your rambling poets, and their flocks,
And try a bard whose tongue is in the box.
Jake was a gentleman and saw me to my door;
he has a rep, but still, he's not a _________!!!!
Boy, that was close! One rhyme in all my lines
is all you get.
A single rhyme is offered from the tart
who gives so readily when Lust intrudes
to utilize her favorite body part
in clunky trysts with non-poetic dudes.
You know, Bly has no use for epigrams—they're tight, too tight
to let the reader in, around and through a writer's lines—
much like your one track mind regarding sex. Forget
the book—I think we need to take this act on stage.
We finally agree. Performance art
Would tighten up your flaccid, floppy part.
the fool, mistook the invitation as
a pass. We have some history, ladies, gents.
He only owns one pair of boxer shorts.
They're white. Unused. Still in the box.
And there they'll stay. You see,
the genre of his shorts are boxer-briefs;
his everyday companion for cheap thrills,
some stretchy, cotton blend for one man's pleasure.
But I'll let him explain his IP tendencies.
His rhymes are what I am up against when courting
humor in dances writ in ten step lines.
I said, "Our epigrams are hot! They'll sell!!!
One twelve page book was all I had in mind.
She said, You're talented. Let’s write a book!
Of course, that invitation was a ploy,
a strategy to land me on her hook.
I’m sorry, mon ami. I’m not your boy.
She wants a man with boxers, loose and free.
I’m not opposed to freedom. My beliefs,
however, lie somewhere between. You see,
I’m more inclined to wearing boxer briefs.
They keep me centered. Focused. Nice and tight,
rather than swinging with abandon. Ouch!
It’s like the way that I prefer to write—
compacted gently. Power in a pouch.
It feels so right. An "in the box" constriction
is best for springing an impressive diction.
Mon petite chou. With the impressive diction.
(An educated cabbage wearing fruit
around his waist.) I like Blank Verse.
I dig uneven, metered lines in Modern Sonnets.
My Yankee stresses trip his Rebel ear
and just to get his goat, I write free verse.
and make him listen.
These things I do? They give him gas
which makes me smile.
For fun, I let him think he's teaching me.
Yes, I can put five undulating stresses in a line,
but, folks, I will not rhyme unless I have to.
Where was I? Oh, his briefs. His boxer-briefs.
He got them from his mom at Christmas. They're white, too.
I got them from my mom at Christmas? No!
They came from you, a pair in navy blue
and one in grey, completed with a bow
across the crotch. Oh, I know that you
prefer pentameter. Alas, your style
is hit-or-miss, much like my Friday nights.
The night I met you was a miss, but I’ll
just blame it on the rum and neon lights.
A freely-worded dame in formal wear
can fool a smashed practitioner of rhyme,
but only when her comely ass is bare
and he’s too drunk to manage keeping time.
Yes, I was drunk. Too drunk on rum and pleasure
to note your words (and moves) were out of measure.
Good grief! His words and wit were out of measure.
This freely-worded dame went home with Jake.
Not him. He drank twelve shots of gin and blew
what charm he had when he wlked in.
I lost all interest in his diction after three.
I know Sad Aggie took him home. She talked alot
about his unperforming ego. And bows on briefs?
No way, Jose, that it was me.
True story, now. That cockeyed barfly?
She'd pinned orgasmic hopes on him. And bows, too,
it seems. I've pictures. (What?) No one's told you?
The bows were pink, and you weren't smiling.
He could have been my Marlowe...once upon a time,
but he got drunk, confused me with a rhyme.
Confusing you with rhyme is no big deal.
You wouldn’t know a rhyme if it impaled you
Upon its pointed end. I know you feel
A little foolish since your senses failed you,
Especially when Jake could not perform.
He’s impotent in more than verse, I hear,
But I assume, at least, he kept you warm.
It’s not as though I didn’t warn you, dear.
A free verse poet like your Jake expects
his reader or his love to do the work
(especially in poetry and sex).
His style’s a drawback, baby, not a perk.
So, ditch your rambling poets, and their flocks,
And try a bard whose tongue is in the box.
Jake was a gentleman and saw me to my door;
he has a rep, but still, he's not a _________!!!!
Boy, that was close! One rhyme in all my lines
is all you get.
A single rhyme is offered from the tart
who gives so readily when Lust intrudes
to utilize her favorite body part
in clunky trysts with non-poetic dudes.
You know, Bly has no use for epigrams—they're tight, too tight
to let the reader in, around and through a writer's lines—
much like your one track mind regarding sex. Forget
the book—I think we need to take this act on stage.
We finally agree. Performance art
Would tighten up your flaccid, floppy part.
