& poetry is quiet (besides, to scream only takes
a wink, while it takes a whole lifetime of whine
to make just one, single effective little line):

Inflicted with all the World's woes & aches

all Th'Poet can do at best is hit his typewriter
with his punchy words--or smite'er
with a weak rime already stale & waterish

& dumb--I wish I could sing & belt out
a high note which can leave no doubt
how deep The Sting (a rime
expresses so coldly its insensitive phrase!

a sonnet almost leaves no time
to show The Unmasked Ugly grimace
or stick out The Contemptuous tongue)...

Just think on all The Stuff Caruso sung
right out of his system!         

             ... Poet at his best
can only/maybe be cynic enough to mention a banana
in the same sentence with Hosanna's Blest,

quip the sarcasm of a Rose
caught in some compromising pose,
or perhaps: stab a flab small mind
with minding ( which is kind ),

trip up th'crippled thoughts that ran,
twist O with ridicule The Well-Ruled man,

or, or, or ... But, of course, if I COULD sing

--I mean: I would NEVER scream.