Two Mad Poetic Romps

This was the dilemma of Mickey Roonie,

Whether to eat macaroons or macaroni;

Whatever he chose, someone would complain,

And his reputation would go down the drain.

Call it a question of logic or call it fate,

As a celebrity, he could not wait

To see what public opinion wanted—

He was expected to lead.  But granted

Prevalent trends and precarious fans,

He wavered and hovered, while the sands

Of time ran out.  And this was the only

Time he had for himself, all the rest was booked:

He couldn’t be pensive or seen to be lonely,

And wherever he went his goose was cooked.

Gooseflesh and goosebumps, not to mention chicken pox

Or gobble-gobbles, wailing quails and peacocks,

Whatever seems foul or flesh, for what on earth

Are eggs but pre-hatched birds, so reptile’s mirth

As well as ambiguous as amphibian, ambidextrous,

As much to say or think the gobbledygook

Of Rumplestylskin’s rhyming song, the hook

By which to capture Rip van Winkle’s blinking book.

That was Gabby Hays, too, wasn’t it, buckeroos—

Or was that Tom Mix and Hop-along, old stars and steeds,

For neither here nor there, fiction and facts.

Whatever he states, perceives, conceives or reads

Lies eventually muddled betwixt and between.  Acts

Are impossible in the glare of history, like pacts

Negotiated on the battlefield with kangaroos.