My Little Unicorn Poem
Come here, little unicorn.
Lay your head upon my lap.
Let me praise your ivory horn,
Even though my poem be crap.
Granted, my poor verses scan
(Literacy keeps a hard
School), and Medieval Man
Must have rhyme to be a bard,
That the glurge of mythic beast,
Fairy castles, shining knights,
Damsels fair and mead-hall feast
Flow from pens of silly wights,
Glorifying spurious lands
Where the unicorn roamed wide,
Till some maiden laid her hands
On its neck, and skinned its hide.
Virgins are, alas, so few
In our sullied world today.
Yet white paint, a carrot, glue,
And a bit of pony play
Fools the eye at twenty feet;
As for chastity, who knows?
Piggies squeal and lambkins bleat,
Shepherdesses wear white hose,
Notwithstanding dirty clods.
So let poetasters rhyme
Songs of hornÚd equine frauds,
Snagged by wantons, out of time,
Caught in tapestries (of gold
Thread throughout, and Belgian-laced),
Locked in girlish strangle hold.
Nothing's wanting here but taste.