A poem can have any subject they say
A poem can have any subject they say.
My nose I pick year long, every day.
For poem of mine I pick the picking of nose,
Its theme, the joy that comes at its close!
I solemnly pledge that in every line or two,
Insert pre-planned will I tropes, allusions too.
I then begin my journey, my song sing,
Fearless plunge I into the rhetorical spring.
Forget let’s not its heart, the rhyme,
Verses to knit without which, is a crime.
Without fail always amongst human races,
It’s found fixed somewhere upon their faces.
Nose it’s called, snout, proboscis or trunk,
In circles right or tone light or drunk.
You know it best, best can’t turn ‘bester’,
Perfect more perfect, unique, ‘uniquer’.
Yet more universal than even our nose,
Like love fills lovely, fills rosy its rose,
A grey-green fluid at one time or other,
Exits left nose-hole, or right, its brother,
Snot it’s called, the son of snout.
That word, lettered four, offends, no doubt
The circles polite have ears wired
To Latinate mucus, royally attired.
So, snot we’ll never in this poem call,
That tenant of noses, vanquisher of all
Sensations nasal. From henceforth announced
That snot will always be mucus pronounced.
So, mucus, transparent and liquid on day one
By day five congealed green, stops to run,
Is a mystery to some only God reveals,
Or physiology. When mucus congeals,
Dries hard and solid, then picking begins.
Not lust, not sloth, none of the seven sins,
Nor Id revealed can fairly explain the sense
Of release at the end, liberating, intense.