How to use an otter to negotiate
Is to turn it loose in the room
Among the lawyers and business types
Trusting its liquid eyes and old-woman whiskers
To get us to a place where everyone is happy
While knowing they all know you know
Otters live by their wits
And teeth and claws
Are fiercely territorial
Defend their young to the death
Only sometimes mate for life
But prefer loafing in the waves
If only everyone could get along
As a poet was brash
His lines rushed out in a lengthy and seemingly unstoppable torrent
And his rhymes were abhorrent.
Wrote verse difficult and profound
The fact that even he couldn’t figure it out
Should suffice to remove any doubt.
Was rather queer.
But of course, the word had a different meaning back then
So instead, one should simply say that he preferred men.
Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Aware that decent rhymes for Clerihew
Are, alas, very few.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Was heard on occasion to say
That only the author of Euclid’s Elements
Had ever seen Beauty without habiliments.
Posted in biography, character, doggerel, epigram, Lives of the Poets, poem |
Tagged clerihew, Edmund Clerihew Bentley, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Edward Lear, Ezra Pound, Lives of the Poets, Odgen Nash, poetry |
Zeus had quite a head on him
after last night’s binge
too much nectar and ambrosia
hoo boy! So this morning
when Athena in bright armor sprang
full blown, well sure
he was proud of himself
(who else could have after all?)
but honestly he could have done
without the clanking and
(Ye gods!) the glare!
(and in London,
which disgraced itself,
and he left later,
O London town’s a town of stink,
A town of Wells and Bennett
Where once old Shaw has said “’tis so”
No man dares speak again’ it.
A man may labour 20 years
I’ th’ vineyard of the min’
But the grapes o’ filthy London town
They make a bitter wine.
A man may labour 30 years
I’ th’ brickyard of the soul
Or make as grand a difference
By pissin’ in a hole.
O London town, O London town,
I’ll see thee never more
Till all thy murdered artists march
Triumphant home from war,
Till all thy streets be paved wi’ gold
Beneath an azure sky,
And Bloomsbury be buried
And the Lakes have all gang dry.