Give the bucket four well-driven kicks
for the tall, dark and handsome — and
I don’t mean the stouts you got there.
A gloomy pint frothed up creamy white on top is
but a devilish brew that promises to flow grief slowly
but surely into every fissure in your heart and mind,
weakening a once robust being in one sitting and
with what at first looks, and later to the tongue
tastes rich and sweet.
Release that ineffective crutch and readily fire
another four kicks for the friend short and fair
who, over her many faces, ought to plunk a pail.
Kicks allotted, straighten up. Fix your clothes and hair
& promptly dismiss the compacts & cacophonies of the pair;
Such noises prevent you perceiving your awesome inner voice.
Picture your provokers in the beat-up bucket, if you will; but
leave them trapped there without rope for escape, and
leave off assured that they will be fine, as will you, in time.
Only to them give the audience due the scum of the earth;
To yourself meanwhile, be kind, and yield not to the hurts,
for that would stymie your benefactress’ timely work.