That Diverse Perverse Inverse Universe
"Some verse on playwrights writing plays in verse,
From you, a verse playwright," my editor
Suggests online enthusiastically,
And typing, "Cool," I think, "The death of me!"
Let's face it, writing plays in verse these days
Is like wearing a codpiece and a sword,
Or shouting "Zounds!" when your jeep is stolen,
Or jaunting to some fey Renaissance fair
And dancing, bud-bedeckt, for Freya's snatch
To spit the season next. It's flat to be
An uncreative anachronist, stuck
In bleak nostalgic deepfreeze, or to hope
Your piece, thru literary spunk, will pop
Out Big Producer's pile, to fail to see
That Britney Spears transplants the metric muse
To vers courant et visuel, to bite
Your options off to spite your chance. It's dumb.
Verse is kickt, and the graphomanic Christ
That would revive it has some culture issues
Best workt out 'tween himself and his mother.
You got me? Good, now get me even less,
Cuz, shite on sharing, I am here today,
Not to recover, but to represent:
My name is Fool, and I'm a verse playwright.
I hope with this didactic to discern,
Thru a deficient listing of my peers
And exegesis on the genre's perks,
The reason I, and others, write this wack.
(And this I do with due, sarcastic shame
For ever having thought my mind could be
Remelded into active poetry
In this prosaic, big-screen, micro time.)
So, first, my past and present peers. Let's see.
Discounting all the bards of cave and plain,
The non-Indo-European babblers,
And everyone I don't or won't recall,
Aren't there those antik Greek and Roman guys,
The Passion, the moral masque mediaeval,
The Euphuists, the mighty Marlowe line,
All tiny gasps for howling Willy Shake?