Philistinic Moi

Wagner’s “Ring” is warbling
and pardon me for caviling
but I can’t take to anything

that lays it on as thick as Mafioso bling,
then makes the goddamned thickness sing
(infelicitous, that Mafioso bling,

but “wet cement” won’t rhyme) –
and maybe I’m not man enough to want to spend the time

to try divining Wotan’s leitmotivic psychic cellar
or the ways he casts or breaks a spell or

any of the other fol-de-bloo-de-blahs
to which the Niebelung extends his endless nein’s-und-ja’s:

but I’ve got work to do, you know,
cartoons and tunes – wild oats to sow –
and I can’t stand the way those Germans blow

their trombones and their tubas, bang their tympani
in heavy slams – their stabs to prime and glamorize, accompany
these hordes of braying beef: my knee

hurts, dang it –
accidentally managed just right then to bang it –
should’ve heard the way I sang it –

louder than the loudest mad Germanic
histrionic

trick.
Threaten me with kick or stick or brick.
but try to make me sit through it and I’ll get sick –
or find another way to get out quick.

.