With muscled arms the fat man
turns and casts his gaze
like fish nets on the ocean.
Pound’s a measure in his hand
and Eliot’s verse a maze;
for he’s never loved a poem.
He keeps no flutes or zithers handy
and rarely hums a tune
or seldom whistles.
His blue collar fits just "fine and dandy",
though, call him a buffoon
and he bristles.
But scratch as scratch can
he blows and bellows, that fat man,
while life drags him along.
If it's true, he carries on
his back so broad - a globe of sorts…
Does the whole earth tremble when Atlas farts?
