A word ain’t worth a hill of beans.
Grafitti for computer screens,
a word can’t tell you what it means
(the thing it’s in existence for).
Each age forms self-defining views,
infatuations and taboos,
its West Points and its Waterloos,
but balks at what the butler saw.
The less that’s said, the sooner mended.
Nothing’s ever open-ended.
Some people want to be offended,
and so it shall be, ever more.
Napoleon had his Waterloo
I had mine, in a water closet too
I'll write of things lamentable like poor shipwrecked loves,
Tempest-tossed by bestial winds behind unfeeling storms;
Ripped apart by the furious middles of swift-gusting winds,
Voyaging to dream-born shores away from boring homes.
I'll tell of the Fate-shattered dreams of earth's surest bet.
Painting how those naive shoots untimely waterloos met,
Leaving tender footprints new on antiquity's fierce sands;
Blossoming stars offed by hard luck's experienced hands.
My verse will endeavor to weave history's accurate tales.
Parodying villainy within quiet complacency's stronghold,
Shaming eccentricities in black nooks by raw truth untold;
Inking sagest anecdotes that any finessed raconteur hails.
Of first-hand swills or soured affectations I will not write.
For the self-loving bard’s quill falters from black to white,
As he relives a narcissist's replica of alleged first-felt lots,
And his best tropes mimic mere ego-embellished reports.
I leave it to unaffected pens immune to self-patting twists,
To write of this modest scribe's little turns and weird gists.
A word ain’t worth a hill of beans.
Grafitti for computer screens,
a word can’t tell you what it means
(the thing it’s in existence for).
Each age forms self-defining views,
infatuations and taboos,
its West Points and its Waterloos,
but balks at what the butler saw.
The less that’s said, the sooner mended.
Nothing’s ever open-ended.
There’s people want to be offended,
and so it shall be, ever more.
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