On how, what would have been the greatest of poems became confounded by my most elementary style of humor

Upon which

Dewy leaf of new spring grass

Regarded jade in a pool of golden light

The marbled beetle chose next

His majestic brown existence

To grace with stern regard

for the importance of heaven and earth to wonder

was anybody's guess...

...But anybody was wrong.

The answer was "The Great Gatsby"

(And should rightwise have been posed in the form of a question)

Decisions

If one punch to me was given
To bestow on a man from history past
Freud would be my hearts first choice
All the way to List's very last

Nimblewits and Little Aidle

Nimblewits
And little Aidle
Stolen from
Her mamas cradle
Travel through
a land o cotten
Nowadays
All forgotten

Drifting through
The cherry dots
And Nimble
Like a lepper rots
Aidle cries
Inside the sack
Slung across
The scoundrels back

Sunshine bleeds
Onto the field
Nimbles skin
Black and peeled
Maggots knaw
Upon his leg
Spiders crawl
Out of his peg

Aidle in
A seaweed sack
Carried to
The boiling black
Wicked tarn
Of Wail Glen
Past the Queen
Of Spider's den

Crouching down
In waters black
Nimble holds
His weeping sack
Waiting for
The noontide sun
Vile work
To then be done

But upon
That mournful hour
Waters rise
And then devour
Nimble falls
Into the deep
Where the gods
And demons sleep

Pulled by hands
Into the cold
And endless land
Of Rulers Old
Aidle cries
Upon the shore
Nimble falls
Forevermore