At the showdown he –

            My poetasting

            Erstwhile friend of mine –

            Had dangling from his arm

            His singing acolyte and 

            I had my accoutrement  in tow,

            A Francophilic philosophe

            We made a truce of sorts 

            United in our deprecation of

            The melody and chord that

            Carried on their backs

            The most insipid ignorant vapidities –

            The words, I mean, of song –

            Which on their naked own

            Would make an emperor’s 

            Ipecac

            The only little problem was

            That this created difficulties for

            The girl guitarist who had tried to

            Croon his mots before but then

            Decided they were just a bit arcane

            (An understatement)

            And began to write her own 

            To strum against

            Her music was okay but, I admit,

            The text she used made schmaltz appear

            Like caviar

            And as we listened I could see

            Upon my colleague’s face

            The struggle waged 

            Between a poet’s gain of flesh

            At the expense of what he might

            Have called his soul,

            And soul – though vanity 

            Was far more juste a term –

            Had gained a head of steam

            So when the singer threw herself

            Into his arms after her set

            Expecting accolades

            He coughed

            She was without a doubt

            Extremely easy on the eyes

            And hers, I couldn’t help but see,

            Began to fill with tears

            At the rebuff

            I did the only gentlemanly thing I could

            And tried to smooth the feathers of

            This wounded dove . . . 

            You know, I never thought of French philosophy

            As something practical

            But thankfully my former girlfriend

            Bit into my former friend’s morceaux

            (As he was wont to call his paltry verse)

            With such a stream of prose that night

            That songstresses and newfound lyricists

            Could exit without much ado

            I wouldn’t call them poetry, of course,

            My rhymes,

            Although to judge from their accompaniment

            My consolation must have been

            Devoutly wished