Before we begin, you must pardon certain bits of “flavor” in today’s poem, for it was written to the theme of “incorporate the punchline of your favorite joke into a poem” for Poetic Bloomings (and you must remember I had a long career in theater and cabarets, so the humor was rather salty), but I also used some rather unsavory words from The Sunday Whirl, including “Spit,” “Pulsing,” and… well, you’ll see! Also at my favorite poetic salon, Poets United (going on three years of membership!).
If you are faint of heart or faint over mild vulgarity, best you skip this one. (wink) Amy
To the Manor Born
They number in the thousands,
with up-front titles such as
The Duke of Whodidwhatshire and
Lady Fluffingsham, that sound like
they pee chicken soup, their spit is
a blessing, and their hearty red
corpuscles could run pulsing into
a petri dish and create a ruby.
Dressing takes hours beyond count;
their every text message is met by
thunderous headlines in the
Brrrrrritish tabloids. Oi!
Said Lord Worthlessthan as he dined
on braised pheasant and oysters during
a recent champagne luncheon at Beltchington,
“We call ourselves The Aristocrats…
but really, we’re plain, humble folk.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
THE ROYAL PAIN
He’s had all the royal breaks.
His every wish was fulfilled.
He could go on a bender,
drunk as a skunk, end up
naked in a ditch, and the press
would chalk it up to
youthful royal wildness:
Poetry for the masses.
In a world hungry for virtue,
there is diminishing patience
for the antics of the royals,
living in palaces that have
many suites – but no room
for commoners, nor
succor for the poor.
Perhaps William will rise to lead
a new England. A good start,
taking steps to dismantle
the British Behemoth,
the burden borne by the masses:
Royalty.
Privilege.
Birthright.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 