Poor Whip-Poor-Will

Here then, a tale,
as told by a Grannie,
to the Grandson
giving her hell.

As this story goes,
it’s really quite old –
It arose from the dust,
a cock-and-bull tale,
and is just as such,
of a poor Whip-Poor-Will:
a fabliau,
from New Mexico….

“This much I know,
when politics fail –
it falls upon most folks;
it pales them most greatly.

Failure qua Failure
is Failure the more,
no matter how Failure
is or not stately.

Adverbial usage
in poems are impure

(or is it,
I wonder,
a matter
for grammar.)

Try as you might
to make it all write,
you’ll satisfy none,
while some pick a fight

(well, a few;
maybe you;
otherwise none.)

In a moment or two
an argument’s through;
no one dare care
if you win or else lose.

‘They say’
there are two things
each one must do,
in this life of strife,
struggle and rue.

But I say,
“Oh no!”
it’s not really so:
One thing, only;
one if not,
there are two:

No one can show
why a Mockingbird cries;
yet everyone knows,
that everything dies.

This much I know
of poor Whip-Poor-Will:
He wails in tall tales,
where darkness prevails.

At first end of light,
a darkness then falls.
This! then, enthralls
the poor Whip-Poor-Will.”

And this was the tale
the grandmother told,
in lieu of her whipping,
her poor Whip-Poor-Will.

A story she’d tell;
instead of the spanking,
sans which, no thanking,
no tale of the Will.

It comes as a story,
not quite yet a myth;
a cock-and-bull fabliau,
of New Mexico.

©2016, Marvin Welborn
19 April 2016. Revised 14 September 2016.

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