I’m into writing parodies, of late. I read a classic poem and into the hopper it goes, where the Muses can do what they do best — muse. Within a day or two, they toss out an idea. I don’t know if it will work until I try it, thus my Word files are full of false starts. Sometimes, the Muses fixate on a particular poem. That’s what happened with Emily Dickinson’s Hope is the Thing with Feathers. I have already composed three parodies of it; I’m ready to move on. But another inspiration hit while I was taking a shower. SOAP. “Soap is the Thing that Lathers.” Now, where is a poet supposed to go with that? The BAR, of course!
Soap is the thing that lathers
into IVORY suds
whose soft CARESS conceals the ZEST
with which it captures crud
The BASIS of this clever trap
is an age-old recipe;
not LEVERS, DIALS or IRISH SPRINGS,
just simple chemistry
LUXurious or LAVA tough,
it reigns from COAST to COAST
Our SAFEGUARD in this dirty world,
the humble bar of soap
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