Speared Again
Tell me why, you dratted bard,
you have to come and spoil my yard?
All these centuries lying dead,
yet there, your voice, oft in my head.
So many times I start a phrase,
become aware I’m in your gaze.
Out, damned spot, leave me alone
To conjure verses of my own.
Perchance, could you just silent dream?
You’re messing with my self-esteem.
Again, I start afresh, anew
To find, again, I’ve referenced you.
The sole of wit, the heel, the fool,
and once again, I’m just your tool.
Discontent haunts all the seasons,
subtle, infiltrating reason,
plays discordant etudes, brute
(slipped another in, eh, cute?)
As I read “with mirth and laughter,”
another pilfered verse, hereafter.
Perhaps delayed, protest too much
that all my poems are such stuff?
As you like it, as you will;
still I’m glad I met you, Bill.
Copyright ©
Jeff Kyser
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