Early
February mist and greys,
the
gutted, gloomy one,
but
sultry summer-thunder days,
though
still far off, will come,
as
will a caw of murderous crows,
their
stick-built nests a-litter,
while
puddle-paddling, fluttering sparrows
delight
us with their twitter,
unlike
the social media squawks
with
their mad, barking soundbites
below
the gold-tipped wings of hawks
gliding
down the sky-heights.
There’s
balance here, but is it right?
Take
a look at the nation’s plight.
I’m
here to pen an Englished ode
and
bugger up the form.
There’ll
be no praise nor lyric mode
so might
create a storm
‘mong
poets who, in tripsy poesy dwelling,
first
Urnified their Greeks with adulation
then
tarted up the Sun to Glorious Birth:
poets’
odes that wobbled into jelling.
Those
tacky flubs that should be on vacation
got
flobbed our way - long gone from wordy worth.
Ref.
stanza 2:
Keats, ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn;’
Wordsworth, ‘Ode: Intimations of Immortality
from Recollections of Childhood.’
