I´m tired of writing. Not tired of stirring
My aristocratic bitterness in the marmalade pot
Of a Dramatic Monologue. Who invented that,
A Romantic Ossian? A Victorian Homer?
What a great explosion of pleasure I feel
What an incomparable shot in my blood it is:
The blast of its blow invading my cells
My highbrow remarks and opinions burst
In poetic rapture, total ecstasy
Describing the world and seeing the others
With the ineffable "smug look of a toad
breakfasting on fat marsh flies"
Or like a mean Angora cat in tuxedo-like fur
Stalking Chinese carps in a Ming garden pond.
Enough for today.
I already supped and skipped my wife over
But to get to sleep I need to denigrate a while
Something middle-classy in the idiot box:
It´s Celebrious´s Sabbath.
It´s Saturday Night.
So it´s time to inject myself with a
Looking-Down-on-Someone Speed Shot.
Charlie Sheen is being roasted.
McFarland and Tyson, Jeff Ross and Jeselnik,
Steve-O and William Shatner; Jon Lovitz, Kate Walsh,
The hot Amy Schumer and Patrice O'Neal.
What a pagan bunch against the Prufrock of our time!
One hour has passed and the question arises
Like a nighttime ambush in my matchless mind:
Would I dare?
Would I dare, I wonder
Me the poet - would I dare?
Show up on TV prepared to be roasted
The same way I roast?
Would I dare being
Tarred and feathered, wasted, shot, impaled
Summarily executed, plucked, burned, spiced, adorned,
Like a lamb or a goat in a Roman bacchanalia,
And be so Stoic, and calm, and cool cat
Smiling like a baked hog, ataraxic and wise
Serene Buddha cooked with an apple in my mouth
Not losing my smile, keeping my composure
While being mercilessly browned?
Would I dare? Would I have the nerve?
The wit, and the humor, and the quick response?
Could I refrain my lordly bitter highbrow,
The future revenge and the eye for an eye,
And transmute the alchemy of hate
Into graceful arrows of zippy sharp words?
Could I be serene and never resentful?
Would I have enough sportsmanship
When roasted by a gang like this,
My beloved buddies of binge and of excess?
Would I dare? Could I dare? Should I dare?
Woulda Coulda Shoulda, I the laureate?
Would I have the endurance, the military drill
The fox enlightenment, the mileage in battle
The skill to talk back avoiding the fury,
And finish this barrage with my small Rat Pack,
Well toasted, roasted to the bones,
Going to the funky bar across the street to celebrate
How we laughed, how we warmed up the brain
And battled for pleasure in the Norse paradise
Of Comedy Roast?
And break out a bottle of Nectar of Gods
In the name of our wounds miraculously cured
And reconstructed daily after such a slaughter
And say goodnight pals, my brothers in words?
How we love each other and invoked Loki
The spiteful foul mocker, ineffable god
The sharpest tongue ever, and sing his bar song?
"Before thee alone || do I now go forth,
For thou fightest well, I ween."
And see you tomorrow for another clash?
Would I dare, could I dare, should I dare?
Woulda Coulda Shoulda, I the laureate?
Now I have some fever, not able to sleep.
Everything is bigger, my TV has grown
Try to find a handgrip for my fear to stop:
Yeah - my wife is snorting -.
Or is not my wife, but the ghost of me
Cracking down on me for me to pay off?
Because, wait
Nobody said Prufrock and the Duke Alfonso
The ones that I roasted were part of my Roast
And I am the scapegoat going up on stage.
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