A Riposte of Gibes
The chilly edge of fashion, they wear pointed leather boots.
Instilling paranoia with their catty, haughty hoots,
they grill anemic Hipsters and make monkeys of the Snoots.
Thin as whips, their snapping turtle wits reflect their genus –
their eyes are funhouse mirrors, and their smiles flytraps from Venus
that turn inflated self regard into a flaccid penis.
Their loyalty’s so nimble one’s imagination staggers,
and as they gyre and gimble Gibes have surreptitious swaggers.
Their morals are symbolic and their tongues are poison daggers.
They stare at utter bastards as they slyly mark the trump,
and parrot secret masters just to prod the toads to jump.
Take care, and don’t be crass – reduce your ego, if it’s plump;
beware these mock assassins, or your neck will be a stump.
Don’t carry grudges massive as the dromedary’s hump,
blare a barbed sarcasm at a slugger in a slump,
or scare the pants off fashion if you’re actually a frump.
Don’t glare from blinkered glasses; don’t be heard to boast, or grump.
Be wary, gentle asses, or the Gibes will roast your rump.
by Ed Shacklee
Editor’s Note: With the faintest hint of Jabberwocky, and the floral after-scent of Kubla Khan, this poem conveys a sense of dark nuance that persists beyond the last line’s lingering notes of fruity rump-ness (i.e. ROFL).