Pierrot, Artiste

His glasses' tint? Unsubtle rose—
Too pale for red of blood or heart,
But lovely mirrored, I suppose.

His every sneeze is highest art,
He'll unselfconsciously tell you.
Beware his biting wit, his tart

Eviscerating tongue. He'll chew
Your poetry like cheese and spit
Its fatty, tasteless curd adieu.

He's Alexander Pope, unfit
For life among inferiors
Who're overmatched by matchless wit.

Sublime equine posterior,
A shame he writes such dreary verse



Survivor Poetry Contest
Form Y (Terza Rima)