Cut the deck and deal out the words…
Most poetry is known only to its owner.
The rest of the world gets by just fine without it.
One could mask a poem and dare you to guess
Of course, you would fail.
But that is not all.
Being the scribe who parties with words,
I could put a gun to the head of each and every word
That did not get along, or clashed,
And force them to hold hands.
I could cut and slash at the lines
With razors and then take wagers
On your skill at plastic surgery.
And then, together we would sit, and play cards.
My deal, my rules, my choices.
Any spade that had the wit to think
That it was a spade
Would be kicked from the deck
Then banished to the thesaurus.
Any diamond who chose to glisten
Would be pried free
Before being set in gold filigree
And shown off to the girls.
Any club that would admit one such as I
Would not be a club worth joining,
But only used to beat Groucho
For pointing out the obvious.
And of course, any heart that thinks it has a heart
Would be handed a staff, and a bag
And told to hit the road.
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