The Poet Throws Down, But Leaves The Pillows Aside

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
I had myself a battle, a little sort of tiff
It was with my shadow; appearing with a piff
Of gray and musty smoke, a curse upon his lips
A hatred for the struggle, and his hands upon his hips.

He had himself all sorts of contrary things to say
Not so much against me, but like night amid the day
Arguing that I was wrong while arguing I was right
Arguing that if I didn't argue I wouldn't sleep at night.

I took one look at him and said, "I know you from of old.
But back then I was more willing, and you far less bold.
But your case is done, and your strategy is foiled
I'll throw you down the laundry-chute, make sure your rear is oiled!'

In a brave attempt (though I be fain to call him brave)
He attempted his riposte: a broad and rambling rave!
'As life is only suffering, so who is one to tell
When your life is soon to be, to be a living hell!

You have largely by yourself made yourself agree
The first is true at least, at least, at least in a degree!
And so by what smart argument or logical advance
Can you rise above the wave of dumb and sickly chance?'

I thought a little bit, and I thought a bit a lot,
And in realizing what he was, I saw what he was not:
'It may be just for me to rot,' I said in my reply
'It may happen soon and sooner or only by and by.

And since I have no real right of justice to demand,
You may think it time to lay the chain upon my hand.
But no matter what my lot, my estate or my arrears
I will howl for heaven's mercy, until heaven hears!

And if indeed it is not in my own dear destiny
To be unburned in the flames as the saints may be;
I'll thank my God for beauty blest with every borrow'd breath
And bless Him with every sign I make, until the sign of death!'

Taken quite aback by this, my shade was now nonplussed
And seeing that his day had passed, he did as noon-days must
He made his fast escape attempt, which ended in a thump
For as he made to disappear, I kicked him in the rump!
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
Psalm 90 LXX


  1. Oh, I love this poem! Your shadow sure got kicked in the rump, didn't he?

  2. :)

    He sure did. But, he'll be back. I used to wear steel-toed boots...


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