Meanwhile in America
By Hank Edson
Alarming news! In from the New Yorker,
That the health of poor Poesy has gotten worse!
There are many theories and we have from her doctor
That what's bad for her heart is free verse.
"She was desperate," said her husband, Time,
"She had strayed so far that she could not tell
If music was carried away in the crime,
Elsewhere bound, exerting good, hot hell.
Grandson Rap broke in: "What the hammer is happenin?
Man, don't jive, Nana, she live, and rhyme thrive
Like bongos clappin', hands a slappin', an' fires crackin'
At Pop with an edge she give, actin' youn', tryin' to live ~"
Then in with a hush ~ the Government Minister
To read the last rights: "Whatever must be, must be...
Please trust in your will's administrator...
Who we will appoint, whose views are not so lusty."
That's the story; what can we say? Not much.
Our only choice is to become the predator,
Not exactly to devour, but only to touch
Your human fragility; no matter the editor.
