or: You Know You’re Shelley, Bertie
As you stomp through life, do you ever feel
A shrinking softness against your heel?
You squint, perhaps, and you half make out
A thin stem pulsing with pain and doubt;
Even its tremors enchant:
That is the Sensitive Plant.
It’s wan with watching, its roots are blue,
And even in droughts it’s o’er-charged with dew;
It hardly can hold up its delicate head;
It’s so unsturdy you’d think it was dead;
Such, such is the Sensitive Plant:
You, however, aren’t.
You’re brash and beefy, you slurp your beer;
You lick your knife and you pick your ear;
Confronted with Culture, you bellow, “Let’s lynch it!”
If Art had a bottom, you’d certainly pinch it;
Expire for love? You can’t.
Compare the Sensitive Plant:
The Plant is drooping. You’re stout and hearty.
It longs for beauty. You fancy a party.
Its sheen is argent. You’re more like gules.
It dreams of naiads. You’d choose the pools.
It’s dying, the Sensitive Plant!
And you’re just blooming, God darn it.
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