January 26, 2020

I know I should be regal,

Dignified, even stately,

Broach my subjects full solemn,

Breathing fire-branded sermon,

But I prefer to be clad in the full motley.

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The coxcomb fits:

Why shouldn't it project

The far corners of thought

That reject the monotony

And tyranny of our systems?

A little jangle of the bells

Jostles the stuporous among us,

The contented, distended

Court of the distinguished,

The bearers of orthodoxy.

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Do I dare don the codpiece,

Dare talk of the protective pouch?

To go as long as one has

At the risk of exposure,

Courage becomes embargoed.

A soaring imagination

Requires some triangulation,

But such apparent risk

Of the court asking if

For my role I am fit.

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So, here I am, in suit and tie,

Looking like what I despise.

But you can't accuse me

Of not juggling or flipping:

These tricks are my sleight-of-hand.