By Damian Robin
In view, he made a start.
Filling up his cart,
He flogged his horse apart
And made a mess-age: “art.”
With few horse hairs of doubt
He fanned his ego out,
Used skills of nearly “nowt,”
Stored bugs in sauerkraut.
He keeps his heart in kind
And only shows the rind:
Dead life redesigned,
In emp’ror’s clothes, new lined.
He’s made his unknown known.
Some say, in deed, he’s grown.
This is part one of the short series “Three Human Types”
Thank you so much, James! This comment means a lot to me -- especially since it is no secret that…
Thank you so much, Roy! I'm especially touched by your finding the piece "endearing." I was hoping for the reader…
I just love this clever and highly entertaining poem. The pairings are delightful, especially: "Things fall apart; the centre cannot…
Theresa, your exquisite poem reminds me of these words: “No poems can please for long or live that are written…
A poem like this used to be be called a "cento," or a patched quilt of various lines from other…
