| An Imperfect Imposition |
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Gloss |
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| He goat a haircute, |
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“Beware enterprises |
| molted a shive, |
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that require |
| and emptoed the moot. |
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new clothes.” |
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| He out cast the let |
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Ruined good tune, |
| down at sup-a-dup |
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raised to put |
| and unvaled a crune, |
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bread on table. |
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| frumpted and follying, |
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Commuters fly |
| and clutched the rolled, |
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in wingtips aspire |
| acrested the abridged am-this |
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cross closed bridges. |
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| Daddy-Oh! Pater-pitter-patter |
Ah, familiar |
| potairy, roong froom the Gin-is-is |
in joy of brewcrew |
| hisses Ink Pour Age. |
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song of a pint. |
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| He rit the hoad alt coomed, |
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[Readers |
| sweeat urned his id, |
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may reply |
| and snoozled wths sapoozed. |
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below.] |
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| Hairfigged fitted, compred wronged, |
All quiet |
| he wroted, a temptwitted, |
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on the worsted |
| but ownlie slylents twas loosening, |
font. |
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| ands the suns downsed and moons |
Only a real fool |
| arowsis a crewised shell fellowing |
ignores the full |
| pips sillied byburds. |
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loon. |
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| Sorry to impose like this is the poet |
Where should it go: |
| speaking, but have you a place for thes |
Recycling, Compost, |
| amythidst your these is? |
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or Garbage? |
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| Supposing posing, oh, posing: |
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Climbing |
| “I am positioned,” the imposing |
the corpus |
| poet posited, “I am composed.” |
ladder. |
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| Nonesuchofwhich off course |
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Maybe end |
| was teachno techno blareney, |
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with the “byburds”? |
| steel eye as I am I am postplus. |
Too late now? |
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| Owl duedew uandeye goal |
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Reading kicker |
| quickwick of it? |
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position player |
| Illklicked ear, wellclick thr. |
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diversion. |
The Coming of the Toads 
I have been sitting on ‘An Imperfect Imposition’ and have had to resort to code-breakers long retired, to decipher its meaning. It seems to tell a story of the mundane yet productive day of a housekeeper, or perhaps the potential destruction of a vital bridge passaging foot brigades to a favourite fishing and camping area. No really, Joe this gave me hours of fun. I sought out a CD once purchased after I had witnessed a folk singer. His name is Martin Pearson and he is amusing and sometimes in tune. He writes some of his work and sings some traditional songs. One of his songs ‘The Word Museum Song’ is based on previously utilised words, now sounding quite silly. His lyrics string together some very funny older words and some ghastly big current words. He goes on to give a rendition of the spoonerisms in Rindecella and before it beginning, asks that we ‘Glaise our Asses’ in celebration.
The idea of a word museum is what really attracts me.B
“Sometimes in tune“: If ever to put out a book of poems, that just might should be the title. First learned, btw, of “spoonerism” from 8th grade teacher, Reverend Mother Mary Annette, may Bod Gless ser Houl. Liked “Mrs. Thomas” post. Aside from literal meaning, speaks to secret life of things, objects, paintings, windows into a world not often watched back.