The Masterpiece

I have finished my masterpiece.
This is the best of me,
Even if it's not very good...
Up Yours! I say to thee.

For some fools it is enough
To be rewarded with rosettes
For their Ecclefechan tarts,
Fancy pants dancing and pets.
Thus the coup de grâce
Is delivered to their ambitions.

For the broken man
It must be the pinnacle,
To walk in to a store
Where he hath never been before
And see his design
Of fragrant teasel animal.

I seek no trophy nor recognition.
All I desire is the juxtaposition
Of scrumptious words upon a page,
Written in mine own hand.
But the Muse will not
Always obey the command.

I must go on searching inside of me.
The outside is quite, quite disgusting.
There's a masterpiece inside me
But the words are so untrusting.
They will not let me release them. Oh woe!
The pièce de résistance resists too much.

Yes! It sputtered onto the page -
"Versifications of a Shipley Poet."
Everything I ever wanted to say,
Expressed the finest way I can say it.

I showed it to the Lieutenant
(You know, the one who fancies me).
He said he'd peruse it in his bedroom
Where the light was better
And would I care to join him?

After an exhausting half an hour,
He concurred that it was very good indeed
And all fine scholars, would his word heed.

So I have finished my masterpiece.
What the hell do I do now?

B.R. 1998, revised 02/06/2013

 

"Masterpiece" by Roy Lichtenstein (1962)