There’s a giant bubble of irony
In this room about now
It contains more imperfect irony
Than this room will allow
It floats like a wanderer o’er our heads
A bit like Wordsworth’s cloud
Our cumulo-nimble-cloud-bubble
Is due to speak aloud
Yes, it’ll definitely happen soon
Its growth exponential
When the irony finally rains down
Conceptual torrential
The thoughts currently queued
Will soon have a tight grip
Of my throat, my lungs, my pipes and my tongue
Not forgetting my lips
It is usually sort of about now
That this starts to occur
A dry mouth rasps, “Where’s the nearest exit?”
And you will now infer
That this poem is about something
That happens all the time
It is something I’d rather die than do
An absent mind, a sign
Our ironic bubble is now fit to burst
I think to myself: I’ve got to be over the worst
My stress EQ levels should now be peaking
Due to my greatest fear:
Clowns?
Failure?
An agonizing death?
Nah.
It’s public speaking