(with apologies to all vrai poets everywhere)
For the second time this season
I was forced out by reason
After the first few sad acts
Filled my disdain to the max
There seemed no better option
But to commit critical treason.
E’en before the play had its start
My knees feared how they might smart
For instead of an aisle
My chit lost its guile
I was lodged one seat in from a smile.
My “colleague” arrived almost late
But had no trouble chatting in the brief wait
Then when the action kicked off
He soon seemed a toff
Snoring oblivious to those with many lines on their plates.
Richard Wilbur’s translation is much admired
But Ranjit Bolt’s attempt was soon mired
With bits like piss off and trendy sexting
Soiling biting wit that for some was upsetting
Still most of the crowd never tired
Of the Comedy Tonight yuks Bolt sired.
While the throng was in uproarious stitches
I thought to myself, “sons of bitches”
Chris Abraham had made it real
And such was his cheap laugh zeal
That the satirical genius of Molière was too often consigned to the ditches.
With a decided lack of true humour
I succumbed to an unfortunate rumour
That few in the hall cared a wit/whit.
So if in the mood for broad parody
Of life’s foibles overwhelmed by hilarity
Then snap up some seats
And send out your tweets
But do turn a blind eye to verity. JWR