Conversations with the King
J:
The cat takes out the garbage
The lion hunts the lamb
While munching on some cabbage
The cat thinks up a scam
He wears a wig of white wool
That smells of murdered lamb
The lion's asleep when cat proclaims
"The lion's king I am"
B:
An age old story told in rhyme,
I sing all praises of thine.
O King! for a day of Fool's Harbour,
Denizen of deeps of the minds arbor,
What next, in verse, do you contemplate,
I, with baited breath anticipate.
J:
The faithful shall receive reward
My word has the weight of my (cough) crown and sword
But these words of praise from you that I hear
I do suspect are insincere
For why would a lioness say to a cat
"I know it's a wig but you're cool like that"
B:
Gracious is the Bengal tigress,
Carelessly, she bestows,
And weighs each subject's poetic prowess,
By his passion for his prose.
In this instance she was mistaken,
And caught and put to shame;
For having misjudged the depth of
Her subject's thought train.
J:
Lioness? Tigress? You're all the same
To a cat who's colourblind
It matters most
That you both can boast
Of appetites most unkind (yikes)
I do have passion for my prose
As everybody knows
These emperor's new rhymes I wear
Lead to sold out shows
I can't see why you disapprove
Or think that I'm inept
That train or bus that you spoke of
I've thought of at great depth
B:
ahhh, a longer rhyme this time I see,
Moi, shall ponder over the decree;
Never fear, the striped cat will return,
With answers to every query on her tongue.
Till tomorrow my friend, I must say good bye
For there is a far more engaging tune at present,
Demanding my time.
Next day
B:
My lord,you mistake,
My praise again,
Thus from applause,
I will refrain.
My intent,I am too weary
To explain, in rhyme,
So we shall take up
Another subject this time:
A contradiction,
In one of your well chosen lines.
I felt it demanded my brain time;
The emperor's clothes were limpid and fine,
But your lyrics are never crystalline.
They're pierced with images,
Only You can define;
Thus they cannot be food
For common folk,
And my mind mystifies
As to how you evoke,
Such a-doration among your fans,
That your shows are sold out, in advance.
J:
I sang, "A picture spoke its thousandth word.. and killed a mockingbird"
The applause that broke out was unheard of.. why is that absurd?
B:
People are like sheep, let out of a pen,
They must follow whosoever, looks like they reign,
The fountain by Duchamp, was put in place,
People started chanting thinking it was great
Accolades came raining for a bare piece of white
Duchamp kept laughing, he didn’t know how to hide.
J:
Duchamp was not laughing
That was some piece of art
If you don't see its beauty,
Then you don't see his heart
Rebel rebel! Oh where do you pee?
Rebel rebel! Come pee next to me!
Rebel leader, lead on the attack
Push em cold heart conservatives back!
B:
Sometimes I feel, I maybe a cold hearted conservative at heart
All this experimentation around me makes me want to barf,
Some dont even try to know the past before surging on ahead,
Leaving a trail of half formed ideas and poetry that is dead.
Dont get me wrong I dont like to be trapped in the past,
But I like a bit of form in my kind of art.
In their excitement some newbies fail to apprehend,
You cannot force an idea on every piece of prose written.
J:
the past is dead
all writ all read
what does it hold
for the young and bold?
throw out the form
coz it's the norm
and out goes the meter
and out goes even the rhyme
B:
all that you think
is new and fun
were all there before
were all found and done
yet each time reborn
man feels it is new
left to be discovered
by someone anew
running on his wheel
he fails to recognize
a recurring fact on
the giant wheel of life
J:
she's picked up the meter
and the lines are neater
the poetry's sweeter
now i can't really beat her
posted by beas hyphasis at 8:40 PM
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