Macbeth

In memory of Herbert Nehrlich, the Master of Rhyme. I am not  a huge fan of rhyme, but I do think it's a good practice for purposes of rhythm and for play. I know Herbert would be thrilled that I keep attempting it.

He is such a fun diversion
raging in his mad perversion,
as  she slices with her rapier
his dimwit.

He rubs elbows with his brothers,
while he loathes a certain other, as
she laughs while not giving, well,
a shit.

He is in pursuit, yes, daily,
as she dances oh so gaily,
twirling pretty as he writhes,
as if snakebit.

She sharpens her long talons,
while he drinks, yes, in the gallons,
lying grotesquely face down
in his vomit.

It’s a never ending story,
that he hopes an ending
gory, and she giggles, yes,
of course, enjoying it.

She is quite the little master,
choreographing  his disaster,
as boys behave most badly
when they’re *smit.

Running sadly in one place,
with a grimace on his face,
the audience applauds quite
loudly at this skit.

It is not to end so soon,
the resurgence of this boon,
when Act I has only begun
being writ.


* Archaic word for another archaic word, smote (past tense of smite), also to smear....

~By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~