If perchance you seek wit,
(Not mere cynical shit)
And a humour that couldn’t be darker;
Let me lead you away
From the prose of the day
And suggest you read Dorothy Parker.
She takes hackneyed themes
(Love, the seasons, her dreams)
And employs her extravagant skill
In perverting our notions
Of poets’ devotions
And going straight in for the kill:
To the seasons she dedicates pages
Of painstaking, delicate work
But in the midst of these adages [rime d’œil]
Her honest opinions lurk
While the springtime is jolly and pleasant,
All sunshine and flowers galore,
The birds and the bees have intentions
Which risk branding Ms Parker a —–
She has known not a few star-cross’d lovers
(And known in the Biblical sense)
But is always forlorn,
Her heart battered and torn,
For she’s not an iota of sense.
No misanthropist she,
Dotty clearly perceives
That each man is a different creature.
Though I’d guess (for her sins)
All she’s int’rested in
Is mankind’s most prominent feature.
She’s a mis’rable wench, is Ms Parker,
Always moaning about her sad lot,
Never happy with one
She loves men by the tonne
And is never pleased with what she’s got.
Still, I have to confess
That when she’s at her best
She’s a wit to match any man’s skill,
Though she’d lose in a fight
(She was ever so slight)
She could scar you to death with her quill.adult jumping castle for sale
Take a merry foray
Into her Résumé
And you’re in for a terrible shock;
She’d have killed herself twice
Were the blade more precise,
But as ‘tis, she’s contented to mock.
Oh, I cannot convey
My respect for the way
She rejected the common love scene;
She turned up her nose
At the one perfect rose,
Preferring one perfect limousine.
If you’ve had quite enough
Of my doggerel guff
Then I’ll hold my hand up and aver
But I’m only a hack
With no lyrical knack,
And I can’t hold a candle to her.