There was a man who went to the Sunday word market
He ventured for the first time
Among poets and wordsmiths.
He trod cautiously feeling out of his depth
For here were academics, learned and wise people
All vying for the ultimate word
The one to make all the difference.
They wanted more than expertise
Each lusted to be the grand master of all words.
It’s a lifetime search and the man
Wise enough to know, was amazed
To see these so called masters
Toing and froing, throwing words at each other
As if in a game, a game to the death.
Every obscure word was on display
Renowned etymologists stood behind their stalls
Selling the origins of words
Securing the newest usage
Blending and twisting
Shaping new and riveting meanings,
Illustrating this usage and that
Giving new insights and uses for words
That were for the most part inefficacious
In a very Sisyphean sort of way.
Inutile joked one to another,
With a knowing wink and nod.
The man who thought he was a budding poet
Loved words, random ones at that,
Gathered a bank for later use
Packed into his word bag
He returned home, satisfied,
Eager to do the one thing
Pretentious frowned upon
To be himself, write his words
Be happy they made sense to him.
After all he wanted nothing nugatory
Uttered about his efforts.
He thought this as he wrote his new poem
An Ode on his kitchen table.