I obfuscate for geckos.
I coruscate for clams.
I whittle avocado bones
while juggling flims and flams.
I adumbrate for aye-ayes,
and when I've got the blues
I make an extra effort
to put on matching shoes.
I nictitate for narwhals,
I scintillate for skinks.
I'll take my gingko to be spayed
and then catch forty winks.
Insouciance gives weight to all
that blunder on the lea;
while gravitas, however small,
will be the death of me.
I wish I cared for mugs and mops
rebounding in the van;
I wish I could grow muttonchops
to emphasize my tan.
If I had never learned to read
my life would then be easy;
I'd feast on marzipan and mead
and never once feel queasy.
And so, when all the world turns pink,
I throw myself away
and try my utmost not to think
what I should do today.
You don't really want that job
(Quasi-triolet on a line from G&S)
Your style is much too sanctified, your cut is too canonical
(O would that it were otherwise! Alack and well-a-day!)
to fit the corporate image of the San Francisco Chronicle.
Your style would be less sanctified, your cut much less
and it would add a certain dash, were you to wear a monocle,
a diamond stickpin, spats, and suchlike. Be that is it may,
youll never fit the image of the San Francisco
and should it turn out otherwise, youd come to rue the
And since Winamop publishes "Round Robin" poems, here's a poem
written by eight of my relatives (now all deceased) ca. 1947, going around the
circle and each contributing one word per turn:
Nonfunctional stars in a saffron dome
Oblivious, summon the wanderer home;
While mother functional, chiffon, or wise
Drowns the kittens and blatantly lies.
Even the waspies, zooming along,
Feel despondent at evensong;
While mud turtles murmur beneath their biers,
Huffily mourning the bygone years.
Anemones lift their lymphatic limbs
and fold their petals in silent whims.
Jaundiced, happy, untutored, calm,
The daisies wait for the atom bomb.