To Fail is to Weep

On those who do what I cannot, my praise I lavish

When all my efforts still fail, I am immersed in anguish.

My attempts at the Yo-Yo were weak and childish

It seems even my Ma thought my efforts were foolish

Even in politics my leanings tend to be leftish

No hawks in my loft, I am extremely dovish

When I hear words that sound pretty warish

I will say, “That is nonsense, pure rubbish!”

Learning to play guitar was at one time my fetish

I attacked that thing with the fever of a dervish

I even wore a bandana which often was reddish

Unfortunately the sound turned out to be hellish.

 

The Cello, I thought, was where I could embellish

The dog it turns out was my biggest fanish

He would sit at my feet and his tail he did swish.

He would cry and moan in a style most doggish.

 

Mr. Ma said, “It appears your fingers are too fattish.”

No subtlety from him, he was in fact quite brutish.

I asked Mr. Santana, but he was even more cliquish.

It seems to me they were both extremely selfish.

 

So they combined their efforts and together did flourish

It made both my guitar and me gently weep with joyish.

 

© Tim D. Culey -2011
 

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