To funny gags, doggy tales of old mould,
We wax worthy as if of vintage wines,
Comic jokes and yarns nearing their punch lines,
Seem like a see-thru dress though made of gold.
Wit is rare art, best enjoyed if alive,
There's no alibi for not being there,
It's no tail wagging a wag acting naïve,
Like sex scene, what unfolds in time is fair.
I'd much rather for well-bred humour die,
That dies today a slow tortuous death,
Yet, slapstick raucous farce jostles, and vie
For space with humour, tired and short of breath.
Humour's hardly for half-wit raw rookies—
Oven-like that makes freshly baked cookies.
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Sonnets | 01.04.09 |
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