Ethereal Beauty #42

‘POET‘:
Here I sit in an infested bog,
Talking to chipmunks on a mossy log.
My mind is vacant; the day is long.
Hey, nurse, pass me my sheepskin bong.

NURSE:
I've had it with you, perverted twerp.
So suck your own bong, give it a slurp.
Just keep your hands off my starchy skirt.
Find the usual sheep to fuss with, flirt.

SHEEP:
No! No! Nurse, don't encourage him.
Last time alone, he gave me a rim.

GOD:
Why did I give life to this hopeless mess?
Who can I pray to, and confess
When my work turns from grandeur to shit?
Nurse, pass me that bong, I need a hit.

‘POET‘:
Laugh and deride, O wise ones, I don't care
(Though I say I do). Famous actresses stare
When I dribble platitudes like brackish honey
On upraised bums of bums and bunnies.

SHARON STONE:
You keep stalking me, so bugger off.
Unable to read? Electrocution. Cough
Up your rainbows for a credulous breed.
Tie a knot ‘round your stub to block the seed.

ARNOLD SCHWARZENNEGGER:
Yah, even though I'm a he-man, non-artistic boor,
I still remember, from my boyhood, when we were poor,
Lines from my compatriot Georg Trakl, "De Profundis";
But the ‘poet’ is non-mutatis redundis.

So I say: to oblivion for the silly and weak.
Let their mad mouthings only influence other meek
Scribblers who need a mirror to better compare
Their own lost lives in reminiscences bare.

‘POET‘:
With friends like these, I see it's back to the meadow
To frisk, gallivant with animals instead. O!
Bludgeoned cased buds in mud are my stillborn abuse,
Corned ham syntactical disasters, thin and obtuse.

NURSE:
Away and avast, boring knock-kneed twit.
Doctor, fasten his fingers with steel oven mitts.

GOD:
Acch! Back to my bed. I need a pail.
The ‘poet’ belongs in a wordy jail.
Confessional donkeys on tethered ropes.
I'll join the fan club of the renegade Pope.