Scott Brendle Poet I do not know?

The Small and Tall

The small and tall never meet,
considering the bickering,
in the boxing ring, 
in which they will not stand toe to toe,
to touch the gloves,
with pushes and shoves, 
dancing, prancing, merrily to the 
resounding pounding of flesh and leather,
which is far better than glorious warriors
pouring forth to rape and pillage the grape village,
into a wine of fine distinction,
betting on the benediction of the monk who bonks
his head on the tread of the twelve steps 
leading downward to the psyche ward,
led by the hand by the bland, inhibited prohibition wizard
who bought forth the blizzard,
which blinded the open minded into thinking,
that the drinking was the cause
for the gauze that repaired the impaired 
who quaffed and scoffed at the vindicated villains.

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