(Sometimes, it’s true, the poet just gets downright silly)
Who the Heck Am I, Anyway?
The kids think I’m very old fashioned
The women think I Iook too young
They fear me to be overpassioned
Their lovingly kept men among
The businessmen think I’m a hippie
To hippies, conservative seem
To intellectuals I’m dippy
The common man too smart me deem
My head’s in a terrible tizzy
Describe which I cannot begin
Just thinking of it makes me dizzy
Oh, were will I ever fit in?
The skaters can’t wait
The haters deflate
Takes an old reprobate
To think I am great!
I used to be a dissappointment
For being perceived as too hot
With old age I had an appointment
And now it’s too cool that I’m not
Of just the right characteristics
The blend I cannot seem to get
It has me about in hysterics
Freshemmeled and anxious, you bet!
How will the cosmetics lady
Tell me which season to be
Sunny or windy or shady
If I can’t tell her about me?
I’ve heard the hype
This is my gripe:
I need to settle
On a type!
Am I gloaming in the heather
Dressed in woolens for the weather
Or am I something other?
I really can’t say whether
I should be swirling ’round instead
In tropical seaside pastel
(Both possibilities I dread ~
I don’t do either very well)
The very worst is late at night
Whenever I’m not feeling great
It really gives me quite a fright
When in my mind runs the debate:
When I rise from my casket
Celestial doormen to tell
My destination when they ask it
Do I say “heaven,” or “hell”?
Among us, poets are ill paid. In order to continue her work, this one currently lives in her minivan, on an income of a fraction of our nation’s poverty level. If her work has moved, enabled or uplifted you, a contribution to this effort may be made at: https://www.gofundme.com/kx4xka-are-you-a-patron-of-the-arts