The Peacepipe Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

If I were chicken I would blame it on the hormones.
The androgens and company, and the testosterones.
A freshly, not quite baked but budding poet,
head swelled with accolades, and did he know it!

The chemicals were multiplying, masses
accumulated, but there were some asses
who seemed to be producing something good
which, as detractors had barged in and truly could
stay on the site as idiosyncratic competition
so it was time to target some and go out fishing.

All this, mind you, takes place upon a lower level
and is invisible to fishermen but not the Devil.
A hook is cast toward the unsuspecting
a bit of tissue torn as if one were dissecting
and then cacatum hits the fan so all can see
and hear and read and wallow in the misery.

A target came within the sights one early morn
of obvious talent, likely pretty, also foreign-born
and once the shot rang out, the hook had gone
what followed was complacency that carried on.

False pride and stubbornness as well as guilt
prevented that one small but necessary tilt
of this crazed windmill with the Kaiser's colours
'twas not to be, dumbfounded there he stands and hollers.

Perhaps she will bestow her innate grace
and rise above insulting comments to her face
so in the hope that writing these few lines
will bring us poetry like noble, aging wines
and end forever any hint of animosity
as does befit all spirits that are truly free.