Catherine Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She was, it must be said, proportional,
if you, my feathered friends know what I mean.
Inside her cranium though things looked distortional,
there was a brain as such, its size a pinto bean.
She suffered fickleness, inconstancy of thought
there was no logic or capacity to think,
an empty space, filled with a substance known as nought,
not even capable of grimace, smile or wink.
The diagnosis was inferior human genes,
anthropological poor standards were in place,
complete irrelevance in talk and written means,
unsound of mind and with a bland and frozen face.
Are you an imbecile a moron or perhaps
a total idiot which is possible I guess,
I may consult with learned colleagues, clever chaps,
a glaring defect in cephalic things, I guess.