To the Boys who Behave.
You have to love these boys who behave,
Their engines run on Self-loathing and Guilt.
Their rooms are sparse, blasé little caves
Where prurience is held in gilt.
Tragedies are lapped up in tea-cups,
Or coffee-mugs, for those who are Good.
Runny scandals handled on plates
With modal sides of seasoned shoulds.
"How could you do it?
"I would never do that!"
(I am lying, I must!)
(I must appear a prat.)
It's pretty to see them held in thrall,
For their lives are infinitely tougher,
These new-age tenants of Wildfell Hall,
(With deadlines, and sedative withdrawls)
Their souls, their French-how bravely they suffer!
You'll see them in classes of comparitive lit.
Where pedantically shall they opine
That Wharton is wonderful, and Austen should quit,
For one's old bottle fits their new whine.
Their shirts are too matched, and their accents too trying,
Their verses are pithy, and quick to take wing.
As quick as they are to laughter and crying,
Yet, one feels, they hardly ever feel a thing.
You have to love these boys who behave,
They write themselves into such clever scripts,
Bitterly comic, but altogether grave,
And delivered in tones so haughtily clipped.
Such good boys! They can always be trusted,
Since their limits are rigidly set in stone.
But that structure can always be adjusted,
For there's always some way to atone.
You have to love these boys who behave,
Their breaths are blank, and their hickeys are hidden.
Their days are full, so hard do they slave!
Their nights are paeans to their forbidden.
You have to love these boys who behave,Their engines run on Self-loathing and Guilt.
Their rooms are sparse, blasé little caves
Where prurience is held in gilt.
Tragedies are lapped up in tea-cups,
Or coffee-mugs, for those who are Good.
Runny scandals handled on plates
With modal sides of seasoned shoulds.
"How could you do it?
"I would never do that!"
(I am lying, I must!)
(I must appear a prat.)
It's pretty to see them held in thrall,
For their lives are infinitely tougher,
These new-age tenants of Wildfell Hall,
(With deadlines, and sedative withdrawls)
Their souls, their French-how bravely they suffer!
You'll see them in classes of comparitive lit.
Where pedantically shall they opine
That Wharton is wonderful, and Austen should quit,
For one's old bottle fits their new whine.
Their shirts are too matched, and their accents too trying,
Their verses are pithy, and quick to take wing.
As quick as they are to laughter and crying,
Yet, one feels, they hardly ever feel a thing.
You have to love these boys who behave,
They write themselves into such clever scripts,
Bitterly comic, but altogether grave,
And delivered in tones so haughtily clipped.
Such good boys! They can always be trusted,
Since their limits are rigidly set in stone.
But that structure can always be adjusted,
For there's always some way to atone.
You have to love these boys who behave,
Their breaths are blank, and their hickeys are hidden.
Their days are full, so hard do they slave!
Their nights are paeans to their forbidden.
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ReplyDeleteFor every stone, no matter how solid it may seem, can be eroded with something as feasible as water and wind. No crying, no complaints, simply the sight of one who was though to be, succumbing to the will of nature. As fundamental as it is, it is a lesser known secret that nature- not war- will be the downfall of man. Someone beyond controllable, something no one completely understands, something that does not take heed to commonplace regulations and bribery- something spontaneous.
ReplyDeleteYou're quite the poet yourself, madame!
ReplyDeleteI used to write, but this definitely isn't one of my best piece- what with the abundance of typos. I have to say though, this particular poem, it is tasteful and true (a rare occurrence).
ReplyDelete