Inspired proximally by chanaleh, initially by Zipcar. I'm proud enough of it to reproduce it here. It's not actually good, but rather like the checkers-playing parrot my pride is in that it exists at all.


The harlequin's burlesque's sometimes devout.
In overcadenced villanellic verse
We whisper softly what we seek to shout.

A harridan's obeisances to a galahad's hegemony are met by those with expertise with doubt.
Like surcingles for ceolenterates or missals for a cantor, they juxtapose what wisdom would disperse.
The harlequin's burlesque's sometimes devout.

Like caudal dehiscing's predictable issuing of some ten-cruzeiro bouillon's visceral route
They offend the very senses with their evident offense, what they annoint as if to bless they serve to curse.
We whisper softly what we seek to shout.

Yet her usufruct's defensible: through hypocritic limning all her galahad's deceptions are brought out.
Her submission is subversive, manumissive of your doubt: what she at last confesses bad you know is worse.
The harlequin's burlesque's sometimes devout.

Her trapunto stitches layers of the fractured body politic with the outline of a post-dynastic lout.
As we canvass his deception from conclusion to inception his pronouncements public daily grow more terse.
We whisper softly what we seek to shout.

Fear incipient psychosis, and the stress-induced psilosis, but remember as he nears his final bout
Those who listened to his lies and stormed the shores and filled the skies and now can't excercise their franchise from a hearse.
The harlequin's burlesque's sometimes devout.
We whisper softly what we seek to shout.

(c) Policar 2004