Although the topic here’s Spec Fic,
My conscience feels no twinge or prick.
Were not speculative tales of old
Through timeless epic verses told
By bards who trod rough highways lone
To sing before a fiefdom’s throne?
There’s Homer, penning legends bold.
And Gilgamesh’s story told
By ancient unnamed poet’s quill
Whose great words students study still.
Beowulf put me to sleep,
Though others find it rich and deep.
Virgil’s Aeneid goes way back,
But with my Latin knowledge-lack
I must, alas, forego the pleasure
Of examining that classic treasure.
For a change of pace:
The work’s the Iranian national poem.
With 60,000 verses, it’s quite a tome.
Did this inspire Rushdie?
The Sanskrit epic Mahabharata
Is hard to rhyme with if you wanta
Fit its name into this ditty.
Unless you’re feeling very witty.
Have to rhyme.
can be visual.
to blow the reader away.
Yet the saga in verse,
Proud precursor of the epic speculative tale,
Withers in the relentless glare of a fatal, scorching neglect.
A traveling bard on his knees,
Too weak to stand,
Too dry to sing,
While around him,
Fat prose-mongers sip their coffee
Then take a cooling dip in their lapping pool of words,
Swimming in words,
Splashing them on all who venture near.
Have writers no patience for it?
Have poets have no readers for it?
O gallant ode,
Will you arise one day to warble at the dawn?
Or will you remain a musty book
On a dusty shelf
I think that I shall never see
A TV show lovely as thee.