Honor Among Thieves
There’s all manner of bunkum
that any fool believes
but one of ’em that gets exempt
is honor among thieves.
Thanks to the lesbians
there’s a shortage of maidens
who have the upper hand
in this godforsaken land.
Because they sleep alone at night
the men are verily polite
to the ladies unattached
and, dare I say, a few who’re matched.
It’s cloak and dagger, actually
when it comes to amory
and, here, couples are nuts to crack
as we stab friends in the back.
The so-called ‘culture’ is ‘all’s fair’*
and ‘love’ is something we all share
except the numbers don’t adjust
so reconnaissance becomes a must.
It’s known as ‘polyamorous’
(we banned the word promiscuous)
where highest bidder warms a bed
and loser plots revenge instead.
Ah, yes, I hear your demurral
as you cite ‘consensual’
but ‘poly’ likes to colonize
and new recruits are quite the prize.
Steady couples, newlywed?
— screw all that, we’re interbred
not to mention ‘unuptight’
which means there is no wrong from right.
Jealousy is ‘not OK’
so couples last about a day
and thus we build ‘community’
on seduction and skullduggery.
Excuse me for my harsh surmise
that love is biomerchandise --
I’ll concede this ideology
makes us not people,
but inventory.
* “At Twin Oaks, the chances in favor of a lifetime commitment to a single partner are not very good. We aren’t a society that gives much respect or support to marriage or marriage-like arrangements. [...] The first and most obvious enemy of mutual commitment is what we call the ‘candy store’ phenomenon. [...] [T]here is an atmosphere here (not an overt statement but just a feeling) that everybody is fair game.” — Kat Kinkade, Is It Utopia Yet?, 1994, p. 183.
Tragedy
You might, like Benedick,
be a swell and woo with wit
the best damsel imaginable.
I doubt it not that Beatrice
would find you fair with
waggish flair. ’Tho you might
entice the lady of that
wondrous play, I intimate
regardfully you’re still a
beardless boy in faith
until you’ve courted
tragedy.
And, like Petruchio, you
might confound the fates and
make a dunce of Cupid’s aim.
If ever Katherina could be
stilled by a man’s will, I’ll grant
your chance is roseate. Yet,
charming quarrels and
quagmires of bruised
ardor cannot dissuade
my postulate that, all and done,
you’re still jejune until fortune
makes tragedy your wife to be.
I’m not inferring the comic pose
of John Falstaff, whose
wicked quip contained shadows
of checquered fate. Your history
is still remote but I suspect
surfeit of sack does not accord
your character. Nay, dodging
tabs, waylaying pranks and
blustering cudgelled mishaps
are not your sport. But, hark,
one commonality is hubris, friend,
and therein tragedy attend.
’Tis possible Orlando might
concede your stanzas more subtle
than those he vandalized on trees.
Who knows if Ganymede might find
your cause to be of noble art
and help you win true Rosalind.
Could be, could be —I doubt it not
that you possess abiliments
of fixed success and high repute.
Nonetheless, I will submit
inchoate is a gallant’s suit
until he’s loved by tragedy.
The Cynic’s Hymn
Desipience and flummeries,
the idle chatter of nitwits;
concumbere and prurience,
the boorish tastes of nincompoops;
cozenage and gudgeoning,
the tawdry gifts of mosstroopers;
recrement and balderdash,
the bullion of the asinine;
horsefeathers and hornswoggle,
the gist of flibbertigibbets;
flapdoodle and ineptitude,
the doctrine of the boeotian;
prepare for rhyme, ye fools who rule —
satire’s my songbook, and your school.
Cautelousness and knavery,
the métier of reprobates;
rigmarole and scuttlebutt,
the hobbyhorse of addlepates;
cuckoldry and bawdiness,
the escapades of jackanapes;
villainy and recreance,
the liturgies of mountebanks;
falderal and stultiloquence,
the nourishment of shatterbrains;
varletry and harlotry,
drolleries of dunderheads;
behold hauteur, ye sovereign twits --
thy follies tune my greatest hits.
There’s all manner of bunkum
that any fool believes
but one of ’em that gets exempt
is honor among thieves.
Thanks to the lesbians
there’s a shortage of maidens
who have the upper hand
in this godforsaken land.
Because they sleep alone at night
the men are verily polite
to the ladies unattached
and, dare I say, a few who’re matched.
It’s cloak and dagger, actually
when it comes to amory
and, here, couples are nuts to crack
as we stab friends in the back.
The so-called ‘culture’ is ‘all’s fair’*
and ‘love’ is something we all share
except the numbers don’t adjust
so reconnaissance becomes a must.
It’s known as ‘polyamorous’
(we banned the word promiscuous)
where highest bidder warms a bed
and loser plots revenge instead.
Ah, yes, I hear your demurral
as you cite ‘consensual’
but ‘poly’ likes to colonize
and new recruits are quite the prize.
Steady couples, newlywed?
— screw all that, we’re interbred
not to mention ‘unuptight’
which means there is no wrong from right.
Jealousy is ‘not OK’
so couples last about a day
and thus we build ‘community’
on seduction and skullduggery.
Excuse me for my harsh surmise
that love is biomerchandise --
I’ll concede this ideology
makes us not people,
but inventory.
* “At Twin Oaks, the chances in favor of a lifetime commitment to a single partner are not very good. We aren’t a society that gives much respect or support to marriage or marriage-like arrangements. [...] The first and most obvious enemy of mutual commitment is what we call the ‘candy store’ phenomenon. [...] [T]here is an atmosphere here (not an overt statement but just a feeling) that everybody is fair game.” — Kat Kinkade, Is It Utopia Yet?, 1994, p. 183.
Tragedy
You might, like Benedick,
be a swell and woo with wit
the best damsel imaginable.
I doubt it not that Beatrice
would find you fair with
waggish flair. ’Tho you might
entice the lady of that
wondrous play, I intimate
regardfully you’re still a
beardless boy in faith
until you’ve courted
tragedy.
And, like Petruchio, you
might confound the fates and
make a dunce of Cupid’s aim.
If ever Katherina could be
stilled by a man’s will, I’ll grant
your chance is roseate. Yet,
charming quarrels and
quagmires of bruised
ardor cannot dissuade
my postulate that, all and done,
you’re still jejune until fortune
makes tragedy your wife to be.
I’m not inferring the comic pose
of John Falstaff, whose
wicked quip contained shadows
of checquered fate. Your history
is still remote but I suspect
surfeit of sack does not accord
your character. Nay, dodging
tabs, waylaying pranks and
blustering cudgelled mishaps
are not your sport. But, hark,
one commonality is hubris, friend,
and therein tragedy attend.
’Tis possible Orlando might
concede your stanzas more subtle
than those he vandalized on trees.
Who knows if Ganymede might find
your cause to be of noble art
and help you win true Rosalind.
Could be, could be —I doubt it not
that you possess abiliments
of fixed success and high repute.
Nonetheless, I will submit
inchoate is a gallant’s suit
until he’s loved by tragedy.
The Cynic’s Hymn
Desipience and flummeries,
the idle chatter of nitwits;
concumbere and prurience,
the boorish tastes of nincompoops;
cozenage and gudgeoning,
the tawdry gifts of mosstroopers;
recrement and balderdash,
the bullion of the asinine;
horsefeathers and hornswoggle,
the gist of flibbertigibbets;
flapdoodle and ineptitude,
the doctrine of the boeotian;
prepare for rhyme, ye fools who rule —
satire’s my songbook, and your school.
Cautelousness and knavery,
the métier of reprobates;
rigmarole and scuttlebutt,
the hobbyhorse of addlepates;
cuckoldry and bawdiness,
the escapades of jackanapes;
villainy and recreance,
the liturgies of mountebanks;
falderal and stultiloquence,
the nourishment of shatterbrains;
varletry and harlotry,
drolleries of dunderheads;
behold hauteur, ye sovereign twits --
thy follies tune my greatest hits.
