Okay, I give in. The temptation is too great. This thing was published in The Brazen Head (and I'm trying to assemble a MS. of funny stuff that it'll go in).
Upon the Problem of the Envoi in the Contemporary Ballade
“The envoi of a ballade is typically addressed to a prince.”
—LitCharts web page, “Ballade”
Though slant and half will often squeak you by,
it’s tricky to persuade the thing to rhyme.
With three bare possibilities, you fry
your brains and end up scrambled half the time.
And then you face the awkward pantomime,
the pose, the grand traditional to-do:
But now that tabloids roll them all in slime,
what prince out there’s worth dedicating to?
The little European kings? Just try
admiring rigid stick figures who mime
in medalled chests and pricey pageantry
what’s lost now to equality’s long climb.
The Saudis, credibly accused of crime
too horrible for thought, a lurid brew
of evils? The idea’s too icky. I’m
perplexed: Whom could one dedicate this to?
Maybe a different sort of royalty
would solve it (yes, we’re turning on a dime).
Some country king of braid and gold lamé
like Elvis, fat and sequinned, past his prime?
Some prelate seated on the cherubim?
Some Koch or Musk or Bezos? Sacré bleu.
Some laureled poet with a Guggenheim?
Where is a prince to dedicate this to?
Forget it, sovereigns all-too-unsublime—
anointed, crowned, and human through and through.
I think I’m done with working overtime
to find a prince to dedicate this to.
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