Half drunk at half-past noon,
I suddenly thought of you,
Stumbling through the ages
As you tumbled down the pages,
In short, uneven phrases,
Like a madman in a maze;
And to myself I says,
We’re not that different, we.
And how hard can it be?
It’s only poetry.
So I figured I’d give it a try,
And if it turned out awry,
I would ask your forgiveness instead,
Which you couldn’t refuse, being dead.
Et nomine domine patris.
The reason for that, since you ask, is
You always included some Latin,
And reference to vespers or matins,
So people would know you were smart
But humble and had a good heart
(And also those four
Plus a few dozen more
Words we use when we sue
Or as names for boo-boos,
Are all that remains
Of the language of brains
Like yourself in these desolate days).
Where was I? What was I saying?
Weren’t you fond of birds?
Was it you that wanted to murder —
Or “satirically besmirch” —
For hawking in church
Some “anonymous” priest
In a bitchier piece?
Aren’t you the sparrow guy, too?
Or have I got you confused
With a different avian bard.
So many of those that it’s hard,
I admit it, to tell you apart.
I’m kidding, I know it was you —
Just doing that thing people do,
Playing dumb to make someone look stupid.
The truth is I’m jealous, okay?
If five hundred years from today
Anyone still knows my name,
With my luck they’ll say,
“Didn’t he write that lame
Imitation of Skelton?” — and laugh.
I’ll rank as riffraff
If I rank, and that’s as
It should be, I know.
I surrender. Now go
Back to being a ghost,
Which is better than most
Of us amateur poets can do.
I empty this last glass to you.
