Early on one fine afternoon why I believe t’was only last night
I sat down to wok my doggerel, Trite by the dark of the dawn's full moonlight,
Thought I perhaps I’ll wear me a cote for the Forsythia forewarns of snow,
The dust bunnies are all burrowed way down deep,
And the weatherman denies that it’s so.
‘I’ll wok my Trite to the parka I said to myself,
Where Shirley we’ll be safe and warm,
For any cote is a good one, thought I, when seeking shelter inn a storm.
But where or when I choose to wok my doggerel’s trivial though,
For Trite my puppy doggerel cares not one wit for the reign, sleet, or snow.
I dangled his leash like a participle and I told my Trite “Let’s been going,’
‘For the noon sun is blazing down hot tonight and it’s already started to snowing,”
At my past preposition my doggerel, Trite leapt straight up into an ark,
He threw out his hips, did two backward flips, and let out a loud joyful barka,
(Me thinks that my Trite takes little delight in going to the parka)
Then out through the front door (Which was closed) my little Trite doggerel ran,
I pursued him immediately, five minutes later, as fast as I possibly can,
Across the front porch and down the front steps my little Trite doggerel flew,
Then he charged right out through the open front gate,
Even though it was closed too!
Over the sidewalk my little Trite ran on his little trite doggerel feet,
Right out into the heavy traffic of our deserted dead-end street.
“Why he’s safe thought I, as I heard the brakes cry, for nowhere is safer than Parma,
But my pooor little doggerel, Trite was his name, got run down by a big speeding karma.
I snatched up a sandwich, and a bag of stale chips,
Then out through the closed door I flew,
across the front porch and into the street where the thinning crowd rapidly grew.
“Oh! The poor little doggerel!” some little girl cried,
As I slowly hurried to my wounded Trite’s side,
“I never saw him I swear it.” the blind driver lied.
While despite my worst efforts, my doggerel died.
“I believe his name was, Trite.” the paperboy said,
While some fat lady sang, “Oh, the poor doggerel’s dead!”
Well folks, that’s when I knew that it was all over,
For the same thing had happened to my last doggerel, Rover.
“T’weren’t much of a loss,” the blind man observed. “or so it appears to me.”
“Not much of a loss?! I opined. “My GOD man are you totally blind?”
“Well my poor little doggerel, Trite was his name, may not have been much to sea,
But from wee little pup I raised this one up, and Trite meant the world to me.”
Yes that is what I said,
“But your karma ran my poor doggerel down now my beloved Trite’s dead.”
“I can see your point,” the blind man said,
“so I’ll tell you then what I will do. I’ll give you six bits and a warm case of Schliz,
For the doggerel, and your sandwich there too.”
Then I wailed, “Are you daft?!” (Well, I could use a good draft)
(But to say so would sound insincere). What kind of heartless monster are you?
For my beloved Trite doggerel you offer six bits, And a case of some crappy warm brew?
Well my poor little doggerel, Trite was his name, why he meant so much more to me.
Sir your luck is just tough for one case ain’t enough.
For the sandwich too? Make it three."
Well we all took Trite’s death quite hard as those who love doggerel’s do,
And the funeral affair, agreed everyone there,
Was the best one they’d ever been to.
The mourners all cried, and the eulogists lied, and somebody stole my TV,
But we laid Trite to rest in the cigar store’s best beneath the old chestnut tree.
The crowd dissipated when police came and stated, “We’re towing your karma’s away”
Me I sat there all night drinking warm Schlitz by moonlight,
And throwing the cans in Trite’s grave,
(Hell at two cents a throw why I’m telling you, Joe
They’re just not worth the trouble to save)
Well old Trite was my friend but this ballad must end,
as we all know such good things must do,
It’s been so much fun but Trite’s stry is done, and this moral I shall now impart,
Don’t look down your nose at doggerel prose,
For therein lies some poet’s heart.
What’s trash to you snobs might be gold to us slobs,
And even from trash can come art.
What about Robert Service, or old Doctor Seuss?
Can you truthfully say you can’t quote Mother Goose?
Even dogerel Trite has it’s place.
Here you call yourself poet, but your name I dont know it,
And so the defense rests its case.
Charles Ramos Jr. 2005
I wrote this poem in response to all the ads I saw in Poets Marketplace who felt the need to say “No trite, or doggerel verses.” I felt it was discouraging to poets and could cause one to think their work would not be accepted when there was no set standard for what constitutes rtrite, or doggerel verse.
Categories: My Poetry