Poêt a Manger
“Eat me!” said the label.
“Drink me!” said another.
“Hear me! Read me! Love me!” exclaimed the poet, desperately.
We looked him. This supposed poet; his hair unruly, his déshabillé all dishévélléd;
His non de plume set at a slightly less than rakish angle;
To be honest, he was not much to look at – and that was still his best attribute.
We had listened with anticipation for most of twenty seconds; then we had switched our allegiance as we watched a late-comer being usheretted to the empty seats at the front (she had a look of despair upon her face that resembled the desperate stare of a hunted (or haunted) escapee that has been cornered into a very inescapable position indeed.
After that we decided en masse to abandon the fellow to endure his own dribbly musings; felonious rhymes; and insidiously clichéd droppings.
The air outside was clear and bright;
And, so, we decided as one to party the night.
He could be there still.