The trouble with comedy, people think,

is that it’s funny. It’s not. To prove this

impels my high intent. A cat at nine lives’ brink,

I swear to die if you derive the smallest bliss

from these sad lines that follow. I’ll take large chance

and lay it bare: The time has come

to talk of many things. Of bombs that dance,

charbroiling bones in fierce atomic scum;

of cabbages, kings, tortillas, refried beans,

and creeps. Right soon and here I dare to ask,

“Why is it, yes, that briny tears distract our genes

far more than one good laugh?” Me, I’d rather bask

in deepest belly rolls or e’en one small chortle,

but oh no-no, the critics, academics,

and philosophes all skip for brine’s dank portal

to cite their so-fine morals and polemics.

When filled, they mince, “Comedy? Toss that pabulum to

poor lowly dweeps.” If somewhere were a muse’s court

I swear I’d wing right up and sue

those critical creeps. Comedy’s fuse burns short,

exploding with a cackle. Tragedy drones,

its whine unending, intently sucking

a babe-like thumb. Catharsis? Empathy? Those moans

just one thing mean: self-preening and mucking.

With comedy, cerebra have to reach out—

and ring intense as Ma Bell’s finest cell—

then thought gives skip and slip, a boxing bout

that fires the brain to fume unnerved, unwell.