Caviar And Marmalade Poem by gershon hepner

All seriousness the man allayed
by spreading wit like marmalade;
it would have been far savvier
to spread it thin, like caviar,
but he so loved the taste that’s bitter,
he spread it all around, like litter,
or like a smoker who leaves ash,
ubiquitously. Always rash
his witticisms, though not drivel,
but fun, he’d let his bon mots swivel
like office chairs, in all directions,
not topple, if men made objections,
for he would twist them with his wind,
refusing always to be pinned.
resembling repartee of Jeeves,
not clichés in attorneys’ briefs,
as light as Irish wit of Wilde,
or Shaw or Brendan, never mild,
and so he spread it everywhere,
it seemed as though he didn’t care.
Acute his angle, the obtuse
could not take all his aperçus,
men don’t like caviar laid thick.
Though Hamlet knew this, yet ubiq-
itous his smiles with unstraight face
unscrewed his head, and so from grace
he fell, and will not soon recover.
His ex, his erstwhile fan and lover,
no longer follows like a lamb;
she’s seized his caviar like jam,
and left him with no words to utter
except: “Please pass the peanut butter! ”


11/18/96