For G. K. Chesterton

*****

Recorded for (1:22): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/hruquiahc4wic44a73hr9/Hey-Hey-Hey-G.K..mp3?rlkey=ah0f57p97puroofikwzzy4sh7&st=wg3halsz&dl=0

*****

Hey, Hey, Hey, G.K.!

There is no writer that I’d ruther
Celebrate than this good brother
Waves his tiny leaden staff
Makes us think and makes us laugh

His words, all frazzled, left their beds
Hair upsticking off their heads
In involuntary dreads
Hoped that knock was not the Feds

On their unsuspecting door
Any hint of dawn before
Glad they’d changed from what they wore
Last night, when they’d hope to score

According to proclivity
Presented illusorily
To their fevered letchers’ gazes
Fueled by alcoholic hazes

Not to even tell begin
Of whatever mens’ room in
They were liberally sharing
At which point were beyond caring

Assuaged the angstful ache
Of individual heartbreak
By pooling funds so they could score,
For later on, a little more

For they suspected even then
‘Twould be inexorably when
They’d reached safe haven and soft bed
That it would be their lot to dread

Untimely summons by G.K.
In whom no decent remorse lay
Rousting hung-over words for play
Ridiculously early in the day!

*****

This poet works passionately for the good of her nation and society, seven days a week.

She’s in a pretty bad fix right now ~ already homeless, and now the van she lives in has stopped running. Not a hope of fixing it without donations. One ticket is death. Real.

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