As Scribbling Quills, This Quibbling Kills The Bard Who’s Blotted Out

“When I, metaphysical poet, wee thought,

All occasion of ignorance left me distraught…

So it was, as I lay, in a buttercupped meadow,

Where I’d herd; the moos ringing like bells in my head, O,

And written, off pat, what had passed from the creature,

As by me it sat, but to go… from my reach, ere

I knew what’s afoot, I was struck by the hoof

Of a fellow, who ploughed through my whim-sea, uncouth!

Move as I might, I was mooved to dismay,

As the brute did disturb me from rest in this way:”


“Hell, O! how are you?”


“I’d be damned if I knew

Such infernal affairs,

Though my eyes leap at you

With ‘ires sulphur-spat glares!”


“If my tidings do bore:

Rivers reversed from shore-

Footed flow, then I’d know

How you'd harbour spite so?”


“If you, sea, to yourself;

I’d have none of your wealth

As is wreck of my deck:

Murking moos. What the heck?”


“Ah! you speak of the muse?

How our accents confuse!

Never mind; that behind,

Talk no more of this kind.”


“Dear! Deer! That be hind?

They’re cows, man! Be not blind!

Now I see how you me

Hit upon clumsily!”


“The udder whey round

‘Curd to me when I found

That you milk the jog-hurt

Of my foot with gob’s blurt!”


“Why, you bleat like a sheep

That I’d count on for sleep,

Aback cuss with sweat’s bead

Shall I thrust till you’ve fleed!”


“O! I’d see aftermath

Of your calculate wrath!

Though you beefily scoff,

I’d devour stroganoff!”


“Well, I’d eat you alive!

Can a ballsy one thrive?

Though you duck and you jive,

At this fork I’ve a knife!”


“O! Cut lairy chat!

In your face I’ve now spat!

Will you give tit for tat,

Or stay write in that pat?”


“Well, I think the man you’re

Would do well on the skewer

Of my sword or in sewer

That’s inked from pen less pure!”


“O! A blot on your name!

My sword’s tongue shall yours tame,

Till it’s left flapping lame:

Mettle gone; taken game!”


“So, at length we did clash

With the blade that does flash

Sharper far than the trash

That our speech could out thrash…

And my limb that was brash

Took the most biting bash

As my jaw dropped to crash

Like the machines that cash

Coined word’s noteworthy stash,

Spoken often too rash…

Biting tongue, I did gnash

As my lip’s pursed silk sash

Ribbon-red stained the tash

Of hurled hairy fate’s smash...

Pride’s prophet he’d slash

To a pulp: thick, shunned, mash;

Till I, eye-sore, did splash

With each beat of the lash…

O! it cut deep -the gash-

That, once dashing, I dash

To outrun such harsh hash,

Like the flame’s scorch-spat ash,

Cold, despatched, with panache,

To roam earth, from dust’s cache! …

Death's kiss, sealed with pash,

Like corked wave of Grenache,

Left my lips numb of rhyme...

Conscious last line won't waash!


When I met a physical poet, we fought:

All occasion of ignorance left me distraught...

So it was, as I lay, in a field of blood, dead;

My curdled rage come to -and gone from- a head;

Pride’s sanguine stream sown to the dust as lost thread:

For jaundiced views, buttercups, spread their blush, red!”