If Walt Whitman was a Comedian - Ode Poem
O originality! My originality! Your new lustre for me is done, you always knew fresh jokes to crack,
A rare farce was always fun. They no longer jeer, at my jokes I fear, the people all unsmiling,
while my slapstick remains a banana peel, the audience stern and uncaring; But O satire! satire! satire!
O the humor I had in my head, where the heck my originality lies, dry, confused and misread.
O originality! My originality! Get up and frame a comedy of manners; Get up - for you the stage is sprung - for you the frugal spills,
for you amaze without cliches -for you the applause is
for you they spall, the crying laugh, their joyful cheeks burning;
Here originality! Dear laughter!
This joy beneath your bed!
You will redeem where the heck,
you’ve fallen dry and misread.
My originality does not answer, I have no new jokes still,
the laughter does not reach the stage, empty seats lie ready to fill,
the theatre is locked up safe and sound, my tour is closed and done,
from tearful grip the mic I strip without need for more dry runs;
Exult O solemnity, and bring O hell!
But I sit and think instead,
why the heck my originality lies,
dry, confused and misread.
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