I knew one who decided
That her soul was guided
By custom and habit and work,
So when she fell madly in love,
She decided he was a jerk.
In youth she owned a romantic side,
Which, when older, she denied
In custom and habit and work,
So when she fell madly in love
She felt that she was a jerk.
Society must have it that she
To be good must never be free
Of custom and habit and work.
So when she fell madly in love
She thought, ‘this is only a quirk.’
She was good and she was lovely,
So the jerk wrote her poetry,
And the poetry did its work;
Eventually custom and habit
Became the life of a jerk.
Not love, not love, but poetry,
Poetry gave love to love, poetry,
Poetry killed custom and work,
Poetry, poetry, poetry
Saved the life of the jerk.
LR said,
January 19, 2013 at 4:18 am
You’re kidding w/ this shit, right?
thomasbrady said,
January 20, 2013 at 1:56 pm
LR doubts the power of love and poetry. LR’s poems no doubt read somethling like this:
the intricate nodules of semi-automatic peach fuzz
in the temperate far reaches of the umbrella
explain to me a gold underbelly saying with whispery
goblets all that i cannot explain…
no, that’s too good, more like this:
so much depends upon the red wheel barrow
glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens
or LR doesn’t write poetry and weeps over cashews and figs.
Verlainelefou said,
February 9, 2013 at 8:20 pm
This is the usual drivel promoted by ‘thomas brady’ who’s too pseudonymous to use his own proper name.
thomasbrady said,
February 10, 2013 at 3:49 pm
“Promoted?” You flatter me. And tell me, what is your name? Who are you really? Are you J. Alfred Prufrock, come to tell us all, you shall tell us all? Is it really such a problem for you what I call myself? Do you want to read my resume? Do you want to inspect me? Do you want to know exactly who I am? Would that comfort you, my little bo peep? Is this like road rage? Who is in that car? Is it George Sand? Who just cut off me off? I shake my fist at you, you arrogant English major!