How to ponce about with words

to aim one’s arse to shape one’s turds.

 

Make them pleasing to the eye,

yet still attract the common fly.

 

Syllable or Syllabub,

is that stanza sweet enough?

 

That those who pander to its taste

are far too cool to be disgraced…

 

by calls to gladly recreate

the chunks of words which constipate…

 

pure thoughts that if allowed to flow

might sluice the sewers deep below…

 

of bergs that over years have grown

Soliloquies and Hymns full blown…

 

but no, stop there, withhold your haste

resist not the world of cut and paste,

 

Shakey, Coleridge, Wordsworth too

squeezed out their own fair share of pooh,

 

Fear not the sound of those who flush

wear proud your cracking cheeks, don’t blush,

 

we’re all the same here in the gutter,

speak well now bard…raise up, don’t mutter.