ToE received its first poetic commission the other day. (The brief was as follows: I had a great idea for a poem …as I struggled with trying to repair the drywall in the master bedroom. Something like "the do-it-yourselfer's lament". As I continued to get a smooth surface through endless cycles of mud-patching and sanding, the thought occured to me that in addition to vacuums, nature abhors a flat surface. I'm sure there's a poetical way to express that insight.)
It’s neither very long nor very profound but the rhyming scheme is so brain-achingly intricate that I reckon Duck owes me at least six beers for this.
There is a rhythm to it, which you can achieve by leaving a pause of two beats after lines 1, 2, 4, 5, 9 and 23.
Do It Yourself
Is it just nesting,
or besting the neighbours
that commands these labours?
Lilliputian in scale,
In travail Herculean,
and lasting an eon.
The Stygian depths we have to plumb
behind the sink. The hammered thumb
turns salmon pink, and then goes numb.
And I’ve given my all
to that dumb drywall.
So I’m off for a drink.
“Well that’s what you think,”
replies the Trouble-
and-Strife, “With the dust and the rubble
you’ve left in the hall! And trust me, the pub’ll
still be right there - no please don’t swear -
when you’ve swept up it all.”
So I must perform a painful manoeuvre
with a dampened cloth and a stain remover,
And have to assume that, as seems plain,
Mother Nature abhors a flattened plane
as she does a vacuum.
And as I hate a Hoover.