All hail the noggin with the diadem!
All hail they who may some day
be snipped or snapped
off at the stem.
For though they be fodder in
training, wouldn’t you, even
with slaughter a credible wrinkle,
if given the shot,
the one-time door knock,
to glide down the gangways of
censers and wobbly miters,
the tremble-
hand candles, oh,
wouldn’t you, just,
so lost among organs and trumpets
and silver-thread-
embroidered orchids
with no born-to-it
heretofore glimmer or sense
of noblesse,
wouldn’t you, trusting,
alone, slip on
the welterweight topper
and sing swank as an opera
from the buttery
lamplights of Moscow to Rome?