Roll Soren Kierkegaard (nor dare exhale As if the mention culls a sheer suspense) Across your tongue, and spell "philospher" thence Out slowly, to learn we were taught lies they'll Assure us was for good, to countervail His wisdom, whiles you're piqued for aught intents Upon that note: "they" would acknowledge, sense Demanded it? But hide what might avail. I know "they" swore that Shelley was in poor Scuse mad. And now find Kierkegaard was too?! Yet Bysshe had keener sense than all as twere, Which I learn Soren did as well? and who "They" classed as what, eh, for all that?! Go stir The burning coals, for ashes whisper 'new.
P.S. I read this aloud January 25th at the 2019 Elgin Literary Festival.
"They buried me with Mum." That haunting sense I'm just a pilgrim wandring in betrayl These des'late wastes all else call home, sans bail Despite new clothes, accessries for pretense, And dearest friends to joy with me from hence Or weep or who-cares-what, this world to scale Some dish that wants salt, lacking flavour--they'll Assure me tis grand--mocks life sans defense. If Hollywood laughs in the face as twere Of good and righteous, where designers too Are filthy past all words and smiling fer Applause, I'm sans a home sans her. Then You Remind me "one thing's needful---" to bestir Hope that my home, LORD's: You. Life. O! Who knew?
Dunno why the verse in my title pulled the carpet out from under my feet, but there you go. (If you want to see it originally posted I guess 4 hours earlier on AP--[https://allpoetry.com/poem/13825794-Cuz-Thanks-Be-To-God-For-His-by-Cheeky-Missy]