On humour

I will never write a poem,
while on fire,
That would be ludicrous.

I mean with the fire alarms
all blearing, and every one,
rushin’ out, while chimes pound the ear.

But where would I
find the time to write
while on fire.

To stop sit and write
with a pen of plastic,
on a flammable napkin, It just won’t work,
when one is on fire.

It may even go all Arlo Guthrie,
‘I know it wasn’t the best one I wrote,
but I didn’t have time to change it. I was comin’ down mighty fast.’


5 thoughts on “On humour”

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