[RCL]

Struck by the artful British dodge of calling an ass an arse, I sunk to the low netherlands of this:

Arse Poetica

Epics chart a culture’s mind
in sprawls of history and wit—
their sweaty redolence warm wind.

The lyrics are much smaller songs
leaking just a little wind
perfuming feelings as they’re sung.

Dramatic verse can be perverse,
befoul the major players’ wind,
their offal smells a gagging curse.

An Arse Poetica, of course,
releases scents of artful will
as contrails of a flying horse,

Symbol of a poem’s source:
Pegasus of course, of course.