byronphillipsOscar Wilde

The Quandary of Wit

Some nights can be arduous,
long, drawn-out and endless.
This night is not one of those,
because I am not friendless.

Besides, I have a clock that ticks
reminding me each second
that if I can see and hear it,
then my mind must still be fecund.

I wonder, though how fecund
It really could actually be,
If it woke me up to write this crap
just to prove to all of ye

That though I can yet type a rhyme
that which I’ve produced this night
serves only to convince myself
the doctors were likely right.

“Brevity is the soul of wit,” said they
without an ounce of pity.
They cautioned me to quit forthwith
I had already exceeded the length for witty

Those of you who know me well
will appreciate the irony:
I’ve tried to pen a bit of Wilde
and instead the result is Byron-y.

So it seems when wit and true erudition
along with my Poly flee
the best thing to do for now, at least,
is to quit and have pity on all of thee.


P.S.  I guess regular posting is a no-go for the immediate future.  Wasn’t it Clinton who said, “I feel your pain?”

Ditto; and enough. . .