The Brain of a Poet
As you know, dear friends, with poetry I've
always been obsessed, But none of you have read my lines;
humoured me, at best. I went to a doctor yesterday to ask
verse. I asked 'Is it bad?' He said 'My friend, I'm
sorry to say it's worse.'
After he scanned my tired brain, he sadly
shook his pate. 'Your thoughts are "apoetical" and
much weight.' He put a finger to his lips, closed the office
doors, And softly said, 'A cure's been found for
boring thoughts like yours.
'To make up now for all the fame and glory
that you've missed, A transplant brain is just the thing;
get on the list.' But how could poor aesthetic me afford this
new grey matter? 'Find someone less poetic who will pay you
for your blather.'
That's never worked before, so I went to a
poet I knew. 'Be kind to me, O Great One, and let me
learn from you.' 'You're wasting your time and mine,' he
said 'trying to pick my brain. I haven't had an original thought
Gandhi stopped a train.'
I made my way to the shop of brains on the
other side of town With its vast display of learned skulls
geniuses on down. Some brains were counting mango leaves,
others were plotting war, And some were shouting 'hip-hurrah'
watching the home team score.
Some brains belonged to heads of state, and
some from churches hailed; A bargain bin held brains of politicians
who'd been jailed. Romantic heads there were, who had no
need for any brain, Their thoughts arising elsewhere, with
every passing dame.
Brains were lying on the sill, and some were
by the door; As soon as one was sold, they brought in
dozens more. But one was guarded in a case that bore the
following blurb: 'Here Lies A Famous Poet's Brain. Please
Do Not Disturb.'
'Tell me, Sir,' I begged the clerk, 'is this a
poetical head? A brain that's Muse-inspired, on poetic
matter fed? I'll bet it's got a hundred verses etched in
every crease, Ghazals learned from hoary Persia, strophes
from ancient Greece.'
'O sell it to me now,' I cried, 'I've waited far too long.'