Poem of the week

It's time for some irreverence. This weekend I read a review of Francis Heaney's book Holy Tango of Literature, in which he "takes the name of a famous poet or playwright and rearranges the letters into a word or words." Robert Burns, for instance, becomes "Robber Runts," Alfred Lord Tennyson becomes "Errol Flynn's Not Dead," and William Carlos Williams becomes "I Will Alarm Islamic Owls." (Holy Tango, by the way, is a rearrangement of anthology.)

Heaney then uses each rearranged name as the title of a new poem, written in parody of that poet's style. So for your, um, edification, I present the following.

Skinny Domicile (Emily Dickinson)

I have a skinny Domicile—
Its Door is very narrow.
'Twill keep—I hope—the Reaper out—
His scythe—and Bones—and Marrow.

Since Death is not a portly Chap,
The Entrance must be thin—
So—when my Final Moment comes—
He cannot wriggle in.

That's why I don't go out that much—
I can't fit through that Portal.
How dumb—to waste my Social Life
On Plans to be—immortal—