Sarcasm The Lowest Form Of Wit Poem by Mervyn Graham

On hills and valleys where tales do roam,
A saying echoes, finding a home.
It speaks of wit in jest's attire,
A dance of words, a subtle fire.

Yet some declare with steadfast tongue,
That sarcasm, where jest is hung,
Lies low, beneath wit's lofty flight,
A shadow cast on humor's light.

But pause a moment, if you will,
And let us ponder and linger still.
For in the depths of sarcasm's art,
Lies a keen edge, a piercing dart.

It cuts through veils of pretense and doo-doo,
Revealing truths, both old and new.
With sly remarks and pointed jest,
It tests the bounds of wit's protest.

Though deemed the lowest, so they say,
In sarcasm's grip, we often sway.
For laughter springs from the sharp retort,
A clever quip, a wry report.

So let us not dismiss outright,
The power found in sarcasm's might.
For in its depths, we oft find wit,
A blend of humor, sharp and fit.

Mervyn Graham (cc 2024)