My verse is of the humorous variety,
And does its best to brighten up society.
To spread a little joy’s a noble calling,
A life without a laugh would be appalling.
Yet still, of late, I’ve had a thought that niggles;
What worth is work that just produces giggles?
Should it be judged as slight and ineffectual,
Compared to art we label intellectual?
And so I did what “proper” poets do,
And signed up to The Scrivener’s Review,
“The connoisseur of poesy’s magazine”,
Where scribes will scratch your eyes out to be seen.
I found it was a terrifying place,
Where people were obsessed with lower case,
Allusions veered from cryptic to absurd,
And “meaning” seemed to be a dirty word.
Their poetry was like the peace of God,
That passeth understanding – truly odd.
Some claimed to write for womxn and for mxn,
Though none had come across the verb, “to scxn”.
With open mind, I asked, “Is it my fault
That there is nothing here I can exalt?”
But days of dredging through this awful rot
Confirmed beyond all doubt that it was not.
Each new excrescence served to reinforce
That I had veered disastrously off course.
I wheeled around and fled back to the light
Which shines upon the droll and erudite,
Bring on a world where rhyme and meter matters,
And isn’t full of folk as mad as hatters.
Adieu to “Scrivener’s Review”, I quit.
Do I need what you’re full of? Not one bit.