Jive at Five

Here's a five.
Ain't it cool? And pretty?
It shows style and knows
how to draw you near
until you're schooled,
reconciled
to its whim.

Its dust is four
which tries too hard
but doesn't merit
more and seedy three
who barely sneaks
past poetry and rarely
has a chance; it's wee

but still ahead
of wild stumbling two,
all underfoot in saggy
puppy poems embarked
on yapping, crapping
on the carpet.

And then there's Tom
O'Bedlam one,
a clutch of words
confused and fool
as Icarus
pitching at the Sun
and falling feathers
scorching
in the plunge.