If I ever take myself wholly seriously, if my melodrama is ever more than a parody (or at least highly parodical), if I ever fail to laugh at myself, embarrass myself, fall down and skin my knees myself, then please slice up my hat so that I may eat it. Perhaps you could be so kind as to boil it first, and salt and pepper it. Because for shame, for shame! For shame. I wax poetical, because I always have in everything I've done, but it is always in some manner of jest. Tongue in cheek. Open foot, insert mouth.

Anyway, if 15 year old girls wrote poems in strict meters and Welsh praise poetry for the dopey male creatures that wandered stupidly, breedingly, into their little bodies, wouldn't it all be so much more fun to read? At least that is my hope. I sure thought so! Let me go compose a cynghanedd!

Have I ever been any way otherwise? Have I?

2003-05-09, Cynghanedd

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