Though my verse may lack the tooth
it once could boast of in my youth,
I still possess the selfsame tongue
that served me well when I was young.
But one thought brings me sleepless nights:
somehow my toothless verse still bites.

A Boast Rebuked

If conscience keeps you from your rest
For having somehow kept your edge,
It seems slight sin that you’ve confessed.
Look up. Who poises on the ledge?

I guess you're right. My sins are slight,
and that is how I sleep at night.
But Joe, I'm shocked by what you wrote.
To claim I have a "conscience" (quote)
really gives me too much credit.
I simply can't believe you said it.
If you agree and now regret it,
it's not too late to click on "edit".

The Inquistor's Accusations Defended and Some Additional Advice Given

It's never too late in most cases,
Depending on what one embraces,
Or whom, and what precautions, medical
Or otherwise, to save one's pedicle,
One takes. I said, "If..." Hypothetical.
If conscience be not there, then hasten
To find the couch, where you may chasten
With psychoanalytic thought
The demon with which you are fraught--
With snakes and teeth and tongues and biting,
Youth gone, yours could be Freud's own writing!
But like the mystic writing pad,
I can't erase, but only add:
(Although I do forget sometimes
The fantasy of my own crimes--)
I keep my dark, secret impression
Of all that's written, in each session.

It's not as if they've given up
They'd never be so flaky
Surveillance being what it is
The M.O. got more snaky.

They've found him in the mountains
They've found him in his lair
They've found him in a book they're writing
"Avant-derriere".

They've got his cell, they've got his men
They've heard his camel whinny
And soon they'll have a title too:
"Osama is a Ninny."

Terese

But I have seen them, Roger,
in vain may you deny it,
dissembler, fact-dislodger,
we Sphereans will not buy it;
yes I have seen your poultry
and seen the way you prance
about like Roger Daltry, (Who?)
throwing with nonchalance
large shellfish plucked from coral
to fowl at great expense;
you’re caring, not amoral,
I’ve seen your “conchy hens”.

Once more I have been slandered,
accused of being caring,
so let me now be candid
(forgive a little sharing):

my soul is like black coffee
I've chosen not to sweeten.
I'm simply not the softy
depicted by John Beaton.

The Bitter Tooth

Black coffee and a Danish
Betrays the bitter tooth;
Though Roger claims he's brainish,
Is "caring" the untruth?

One might consult his lady wife
Or gypsies in a booth:
"Is it sweetness, is it strife,
Or must we rent a sleuth?"

Terese

Okay, I guess I'm busted.
I really am quite gentle,
worthy to be trusted
though somewhat sentimental.

Though I project the image
of a quarterback on steroids,
I do not like to scrimmage
with my fellow Eratospheroids.

Another tangent:

The conversation started on a course of alexandrines,
Proceeded to the meaning of Pierre de Ronsard's lambskins.
It wasn't long before we turned to academic patter,
To stresses and seniority, the pay squeeze and the matter
Of all the ways an applicant for Ph.D. must play
In order to impress the college faculty one day.

And though it wasn't intimate, a glow came through the phone
As if you thought flirtation was the entree to some throne.
"Let's meet at nine for drinks at Googie's, you must know the place"—
The thought occurred I wasn't ready for a face-to-face.
Bravura came from somewhere and we made a date for later;
Thus it was we each became the other's compensator.

Terese



[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited December 06, 2002).]