I am the Lord Iambic

I am, I am, I am the Lord Iambic

I’m big, I’m broad, I’m mesomorphic strong

My words, denuded, the essence of the sonic

Like Rock, the rhythm is holy wrong


It’s measured, metered, precise as Math

Skewers, puts in sewers, that unaesthetic drool

And it does it so it feels like hell’s wrath

No, it never suffers the fool


It’s English, it’s bourbon, it’s beef and scotch and smoke

It’s satin, so satin — so satin it is sainted

Raise your glass, drop some acid, come and take a toke

It’s cool, fucking cool and you almost fainted


It’s Lucy in the sky with diamonds

Verbal hallucinations of lemon custard pie

Like Lennon knew Byron on a distant planet

These, the words, my master takes me high

Copyright, David Gottfried, 2012


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