Troubled Wit

To joke or not to joke,
that is the question—
I joke and folks become irate;
more trouble awaits, I see
torches and pitchforks,
tar and feathers me.
Bad taste my wit,
(I shall not brag)
my tongue a lance
to shock and awe
offending wag I stay.
I am chased by rioters,
wide eyed red-faced,
those shaking fists;
Don Rickles won
with savage wit,
so why not me?
My audience
the whole of life,
that which is human
to be vetted often,
by joking hard and fast.
Those feelings find the
meat-grinder, insults
my stock and trade;
yet troubles comes
with hiss and boo…
(and so much more.)
my reputation
torn, shredded like
so much wind-blown
confetti. I don my
shield, grow new
skin as arrows fly.


34 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
7-2-20