At the risk of coming off turgid
I offer this tale esoteric
Hoping it’s not found insipid
Nor causes one to be apoplectic
But rather received with alacrity
Without the need for paroxysm
My word there’ll be no chicanery
And avoidance of anachronism
Far from being sesquipedalian
Nor need for any razzmatazz
The tale of the slubberdegullion
Who thought himself full with pizzazz
Though being so supercilious
His affect stirred only dudgeon
Any good was so very fugacious
From this untoward tatterdemalion
Yet still he persisted a mumpsimus
If you will, and worse a panjandrum
So aggravating and rumbustious
Redeeming qualities not a modicum
An unquestioned snollygoster
Given to being quite vagary
An ill-reputed hugger-mugger
And a voice of such cacophony
But I see that you are insouciant
And consider my warning malarkey
Since you wish to be recalcitrant
My apologies for being persnickety
I end my tale of the rapscallion
Without further ado or rigmarole
Avoiding becoming ultracrepidarian
I have met my supererogatory parole
Salvation by the Ounce
David J Walker
Gold must be the stuff
Of which the Cup of Christ
is made of
Its value supererogatory
Its bearings veiled
It's content cryptic and obscure
Unknown to hunger
The clean men
In white shirts
are the anointed guides
Meditating and navigating
By starlight
While the beggar's cup is empty
Except for the noise of the street
His presence de trop
And holey ignored
Unless the cameras roll
Gold must be the stuff
Of which
the Cup of Christ is made of
Salvation measured by the ounce
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