Not By A Long Shot

Short-felled and whisper-proofed
unheard, deservedly,
Faulted in cracked wisdom,
the wisenheimer proofs his pudding,
Shameless, in the belief that all this
shall not be exposed to the light of day,
But rather slink about in the panther night
seeking whom it may devour,
Chasing its own tail in a never ending
solipstick tautology.

Ah, again the banana peel and. . .
cue rim shot.
Jack-all and hide, far dumb, near numb,
from long-continued silence hoarse.
So, gone again, but the flexion
as a ritual gesture unchecked
Offers still a modest doff,
“Top of the mournin’. . .”