If I Get Some Rest

I would regale you with verbal gymnastics,
With lines so fine as to incline old Manley
Hopkins from the grave to rise and whistle,
Bones a-clatter, calling out to half-aghast
Poetic esthetes that he's met his match at
Last, and likes the thought. An atheist has
Found the beat, and, though his Lord is
Out of sorts, the rascal writes, and, doing
So, disports as if he treads the boards of
Heaven's stage and has the angels doing
Cha-chas, drinking rum, and hearing
Satan's siren song, and saying, sotto voce,
That there is more fun in hell than there,
But I am tired, out of tricks. I don't know
What to say.

poem by Lawrence Beck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!