Inane Bow Poem by Patti Masterman

Upon the violinic dischord of your days
You painfully string some wire
Thinking the vetted world pays
For words unextreme; less dire

But the hollowed wood of the lunatic
More resounding a music, plays
Than your bookkeeper's list, so semantic
Where safe in it's columns, must stay

With a pan and a spoon, go the heretics
Beating their dooms into song
While walking sticks of peripatetics
Leave but holes, in the feet of the throng.