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Elegy For The Old Peace Wisher, Azazel Shucks, 1
Azazel Shucks has passed away!
That's what the homespun peots say,
spinning, at home, their peotry
(like canning jam, an elegy;
'tween scrapbooking and raising ducks,
they scrawl words for Azazel Shucks).
Peacewishing is less than peacemaking:
peacewishing is, merely, a taking
of credulous people's attention
at least to get some kind of mention
in their peoms; or with soft looks,
and words that only seem sweet, like fresh honey,
to take from them their hard-earned and scarce money,
to purchase the peace-wisher's cobbled books:
not poetry, his stuff, the worst of prose,
but effortless and lucrative a pose.
Azazel Shucks is dead,
buried with his international scam.
No more his serpentine forked tongue, or dishing
out false praises (that was part of his peace-wishing)
And nothing more now need be said,
except "Who really gives a damn?"
The curtain has come crashing down
on Azazel Shucks---poeseur, scammer, and clown.
Starward
[jlc]
