A Rigmarole Casserole Poem by Paul Hartal

The old rhyme factory
was built by wondrous magistery,
the ancient, arcane alchemy,
well known from prehistory,
that transmutes Tahiti to graffiti.

The front door stood
at the tributary
of a distributary,
presenting a permanent mystery
over migratory territory
overflown by singing birds
without a repertory.

Now, these singing birds,
although they were on parole,
they forgot to eat their casserole.
Instead, they went to play urgently
with Alis' chalice.

Yes, they forgot the spicy casserole,
but then the whole flock flew to Venice
where they chirped the best barcarolle.
Even gondoliers praised their service.

So, the birds did not really care about
spicy zest, nor about the hurling horse
that prepared and cooked the casseroles,
in a deliciously seasoned sauce,
with roasted rhyming rigmaroles.

Nevertheless, then the secretary
of the oratory, and a teacher
from the conservatory,
came forward conciliatory
and they said:
"We don't offer any commentary."

"Now wait a minute",
said the master,
"forget rivalry and chivalry
and let it be known that
it is perfectly legal
to have excessive admiration
for Shakespeare,
beyond the circles of bardolatry,
even when wearing a headgear,
or traveling to Tangier."