Gobbledygook

 

 

(Picture Credit - Alamy)

Wot’s this damned Poetry stuff?

It’s all Gobbledygook to me!

As far as I’m concerned you can just stick

Your iamb up your fat pentameter.

Wink.

And I don’t care whether some of it

Is like common speech.

Or clever for being slightly incorrect.

Wink.

 

So why do lilies have to mean death

When they are nothing but fracking flowers?

What’s with all these virile horses

And apples that are supposed to be bosoms?

They are bladdy animals and fruit

For heaven’s sake!

Nothing more, nothing less.

 

All this Moon in June stuff.

All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying

And unrequited love.

All sentimental words

And Repetition.

I’d rather read a tome like a car manual:

At least it tells you something

You can use in real life.

 

Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me.

All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid

Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical

Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus.

And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot

With his cruel Aprils and his

Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est.

Vita illius.

 

And while I’m at it.

Who needs history when we live in the present?

Art is no use whatsoever.

Give me a hammer and a spanner

Any day.

Leave those luvvies to their childlike play

And ballet dancers to their pillockettes.

Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa.

Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats.

Poetry? No bladdy thanks.

(Written for some Friends.

Winks.

At too great a length

For most).

 

 Paul Butters

© PB 13\7\2023.