Romar A. Pabustan
I am a deadpan.
Feels like a drifter.
Brothels are my milieus;
Heists are allegories;
Debauchery and gaucheness
Are all affronted me;
It is a true gash in my heart-
Courtesan would be courtesan-
Star-crossed stories are ensconcing;
Lycanthropy became beauty;
Charlatans are convincing;
Caches are now apparent;
Dissidents misread chrestomathy;
Man of akimbo has akrasia;
Champions are unrequited;
Alas is hurray;
Tunicles worn by villains...
Mockingbirds are now blue jays;
Blue jays are now mockingbirds!
Still Touracos are unheeded;
Tuscany is a battlefield;
Rococo is not an art anymore;
Dearth of fire is literary;
Opulent words are encumbrances;
Music is for the deaf;
Militarism is today’s commerce;
Science is more than a humbug;
Topicality is banal;
Elhi education is gambling house;
Religion died after Christ gone;
But I am still a deadpan...
Taciturnity is my spectacle;
Virtuousness is my spyglass;
Creativity is my enthusiasm;
Dream is my vista...
I am a deadpan!
Pride is Pulitzer Prize.
Death grip is the Nobel Prize.
Louver and Smithsonian are domiciles-
A thespian at his most sublime,
But battered by cat-o’-nine-tails,
Like conundrums with great details.
I am a deadpan...
Looks like a silent lamb,
But I am a tinderbox
Me and my
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Comments about this poem (Deadpan Comedy by Romar A. Pabustan )
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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