[Ann Drysdale]

Oh, Frank - not Lucy? Alas, t'were an infelicitous conjuction, methinks... But there's nowt to say you can't fire it off again at the right target. Go on!

[Roger Slater]

George and John seem to have the market cornered, but I keep working in case their entries get lost in cyberspace due to a worm I am trying to develop for just these purposes.


THE ASCETIC

There are no shoes upon my feet,
no cushions on my stool.
For days on end I do not eat
and when I do, it's gruel.

I don't indulge in vice or sin,
and yet I still atone.
The loin cloth itches that I'm in.
My pillow is a stone.

I do not laugh, I do not speak,
I do not leave my hut.
I urinate but once a week.
My windows are all shut.

I try to live like Paul, the Saint,
whose life was so austere.
I find I have but one complaint:
I sure could use a beer.

*

PS-- Oops, I see too late the limit it 14 lines. I might have to lose S3.

[Ann Drysdale]

Psst - Roger. This is not a worm. This is the wicked serpent tempting you to sin. Go on - take out all the odd-numbered linebreaks and see what happens...

Voilà! - couplets with internal rhymes.

I dare you.

[Roger Slater]

Great idea, Ann. I accept your dare. Though I'll still lose to several others on this page. I'm not complaining, though. I've given up winning for fear it might corrupt the mind-body balance I've achieved through years of self-denial. As an ascetic, losing is my one indulgence.

**

THE ASCETIC

There are no shoes upon my feet, no cushions on my stool.
For days on end I do not eat, and when I do, it's gruel.

I don't indulge in vice or sin, and yet I still atone.
The loin cloth itches that I'm in. My pillow is a stone.

I do not laugh, I do not speak, I do not leave my hut.
I urinate but once a week. My windows are all shut.

I try to live like Paul, the Saint, whose life was so austere.
I find I have but one complaint: I'm dying for a beer!

[Ann Drysdale]

There - that didn't hurt a bit, did it? Now - can I tempt you to a bite of this nice apple...?

Actually, this isn't a bad little fix-ette in certain circumstances. I've done it to a poem of mine to save a page in a collection and I'm willing to bet our genial host has, too. John?

[John Whitworth]

Do it all the time, Ann.

[R. S. Gwynn]

I had to cut a stanza out an old one, too. But that's asceticism, right?

When St. Simeon Stylites was besieged by girls in nighties
(In the harem they would wear’em on the 7/24),
He remained upon his pillar (such a haughty lady-killer!)
And their dances got no glances, for he thought them all a bore.

More ascetic than Siddhartha, he was hard on saintly Martha
(What a drama! His own mama!) whom he would not let draw near,
And he said with bitter laughter, “We shall meet in the hereafter.”
Well, she went away and died that day. He never shed a tear.

So he met her up in heaven after more than 37
Years of setting out and getting even closer to the bone:
“Son, you should have eaten better. I’ve been knitting you a sweater.”
But the hermit would not permit her to help him try it on!