The Shrubbing of a Bardlet

By: Gnaash Posted on: October 12, 2007

I said to Sam, the bartender, I really like your taste;

The Famous Bar has never looked so nice.

The walls are freshly coated in the truest shade of blue

And the bar is newly polished once (or twice),

The atmosphere is lively and the piano is in tune,

The inspiring scent of cognac's in the air.

That cloying sense of helpless desperation can be traced

To a small, green shrub that's rustling over there.

Over there, it's mildly rustling with a soft and leafy sound

As it sits, alone, unnoticed by the bards

Who gather round to pirouette or scribble villanelles,

While you pour their drinks or deal a hand of cards.

Despite its many protests, on the social fringe it dwells.

Its knack for causing trouble's hard to bear.

Its cultivated sense of melodrama is profound.

Such a small, green shrub that's rustling over there.

Oh, what's a shrubbery to do but sit and contemplate

All its myriad and consequential fears?

Mildly rustling in a corner, undefended and unloved,

Haunted by the very thought of pruning shears.

A shrub can't play a lyre, sing a high C or above,

Write a play, or nimbly handspring through the air.

No matter how you cut it, Sam, there's really nothing great

About that small, green shrub that's rustling over there.

With a quaff of absolution, down the gullet goes my drink

As I cast a sidelong gander at the shrub.

It's a shame to know a Bardlet who may never find his voice,

Drink with Sam, or play at New Year's in the pub.

But it's not as if this mildly rustling student had no choice,

Snidely breaking Garden law without a care.

Thank you, Sam, for giving me this chance to chat and think

About that small, green shrub that's rustling over there.

Over there, it's mildly rustling with a swishing, grassy sound

As it sits, alone, unnoticed by the bards

Who gather here to practice scales or scribble terzanelles,

While you pour their drinks or deal a hand of cards.

Through the open windows can be heard the tower bells

Ringing in a mountain morning crisp and fair.

But no day is a good day when you're potted on the ground

Like that small, green shrub that's rustling. Over there.