Poem for the end of July

Superfluous Sonnetina

for Serena Celestina Constantina,

My Erstwhile Muse

Should a poem surprise us, like a riddle given away in its title,

Or a truism almost twisted enough to come as a shock,

It would be something worth thinking about, as spittle

On my shoe or bird plop on the shoulder: mock

Me if you will, versifier, call yourself troubadour,

And me crusty old critic.  Summon me to the dock,

If you will, and make me walk the plank, or bore

Me to death with your pseudo rhymes.  What a stock

Of commonplaces you have in your brain, what a store

Of lumber pretending to be toys and tittle-tattle,

That is, nonsense gossip and unfounded rumour,

Recollected and collected out of classical cattle,

Museums become barns and putti bairns of no account,

Metaphorical monstrosities, cud-chewing  chattel,

Europa ravished, Persephone trapped on Mount

Erebus, and a Nymph drowned in the Fount,

And all for what, to flatter the feathers off someone’s whore

And reap the whirlwind at ancient Poësie’s core?