the well-crafted phrasing
which waters the eyes of poets
and others of the creative art
doesn’t faze the red ones
of this rowdy group
he can tell his poem is in trouble
their voices over-shout his
their words heavily applauded
their faces focused on curses
sarcasm and stupid fun
the poet senses they want
not lyrics but limerick
something to bellow and
swing a full glass to
cavort with a favorite emotion
as he finishes his kicker last verse
and wanders off stage
they clap and whistle wildly
their sendoff - that old-fashioned
Irish pub “barbeque”
of an Irish poet
that hopefully earned him
the smile of a free beer
or two or three
fourfive...
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