Poetry for the weak (for the week)

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Poetry for the weak (for the week)

The sun shone benignly
Warming bones and spirits
Alleviating ailments and
Adding a little je n’ai sais quoi to the occasion
(Which is always handy).

The cool breeze was empathetic
As it was largely innocuous in its bearing
And it soon curtailed it’s efforts
As the people neither needed
Nor wanted it anyway.

They say, that if you look directly into the sun
Through some smoked salmon and cream cheese
You will be considered mad
I know this to be so.

That was prose.
I was being kind to you
Though, no-one ever
Took such kindness to ‘my’ brain
As my brain well knows.

‘Poetry’ is a curse
And, much worse,
It is often written
In contulambraic verse
Or some suchlike nonsense.

I have, sadly, been bitten; nay, smitten
By the ‘lack of commonsensical,
Whimsical, tra-la-la mimsical’
Muse
There is no hope of release
For one with this pernicious disease
“Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?”
By which ‘priest’ I mean ‘poetry.’

So, my advice
For what it is worth
To you
Who are seeking a poetry dearth
Is to stick to fiction
Avoid an addiction
Or a pesky predilection
To rhyming in your diction
And your reading habits
For the evil curse
Of the open poetry purse
Will cause the verse
To breed like rabbits.
And you wouldn’t want that now,
Would you?

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