Serenade
When the fingers of day are curling
Like a paralytic's digits, and Diana's moon pops out,
We all pop out and want to get a little.
When we don't, we go home
And put on a little Beethoven,
And in a Romantic mood, poke out our eardrums,
So we amy then have an awful destiny to which we are
Drawn like bugs to a blue light,
Or ministers to a gussied-up policewoman,
Which we doubt Byron and his band of chick-magnets
Ever thought of as they looked at each new sky,
Not knowing they didn't have many left,
But that is the poet's function:
It is his inevitable destiny
To make an ass of himself in private, and then in public,
When he reads from his book upside-down
Loud moose-like bellows and nonsense syllables,
And then stick his head under some woman's dress
And maybe get a little, or at least a
Reminder to stop at the market and pick up some fish.
Sent as a joke to poetry.com
