Humour

Unable to stomp him to oblivion, She stings and hurts the wound is where open, Yea, humour a revenge is of an ant Over the might of a thick-skinned giant. Not an act it seems so incongruous As to steal a silly cold smirk from us— One gets stung feeling while cosy and cool, The stinger getting riled by ridicule! If punning is lowest form of fine wit, And a semantic zip fastener, it Oft is seen unseemly while seamless whole, Like a chasm between the north-south pole! True humour Gestalt is amidst all human arts, Where whole more humorous is than the sum of parts, And where jest often by truth is fully revealed, While hidden lies, like sleeping dogs, hardly get grilled. Hard comes humour that stress nor strain creates, It needs no hammer still to straighten hates, Should there be a punch line, humour's fair-half, And a safety valve disguised as good laugh! But laughter, wry or dry, oft with pain's fraught, As life comes, as comes man, like a mixed pot On boil— an odd mixture of laugh and cry, As life's punch line leaves us all high and dry! In a Byzantine thankless road to humour, I hope my pen can heal, not hit like hammer!