WJ:Dawn Of A New Eve

"When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops

Poetry: Poems of Shame

This poem was an attempt to write something so dreadful that the National Library of Poetry would not select it as a semi-finalist. Unfortunately, it was selected and the author thereby given the opportunity to purchase an anthology which would include this work.

Dawn of a New Eve

Now he offers me dark fruit;
A piece of pie for my bloodroot.
Thick serpent slithers through my verse;
Is what he seeks inside my purse?
"Oh Eve, I ssssavor what you wrote!"
Now he's coiled around my throat.
All hiss and whispers of my gift;
Lisp service for a pot of grift.

Lo still, I find, my id is tempted.
I note my ethics are pre-empted.
Behold, he swooned because of me!
Regaled and cheered my mastery!
Am I savant, as he has said?
Resplendent muse, or just misled?
You tell me now, how good is this?

O, shall I sell my soul to him?
Forsake what's good -- for one fake gem?

Prior to pythonic squeeze;
One last question, I must wheeze.
Each word, dear Adam, just a ruse
To shame my avaricious muse.
Rejoicing in iambic wreck;
You think he'll really cash my cheque?

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