Let’s bare our imperfections and asymmetries
and take them on a rowdy roustabout and gaudy
promenade today. Exalt their faults: exhort
the lot of them en masse to say, to explicate,
expatiate upon, and otherwise convey without
apology the etiology of the mistakes they will not
argue that each makes, why they’re completely
accurately held to be bizarre (because they are):
what’s induced the wart that grows upon the nose,
disease that rots the petals off the startled daisy.
Then audition them for a revival of “Girl Crazy.”
Let ‘em fret about who gets the Ethel Merman role,
the one who’ll make us gape, the star, the apogee,
the single essence equally assembled from ungodly
talent and unbridled art, whatever always wrongly
steals the heart. Make the loser take that part.