RON NEWMAN

The Discussion

Once upon an offal pile
         Sat two flies discussing style.
Disgusting and disgusted,
         Each fly felt qualified to spew
His wisdom 'pon the other.

"Style is a fickle thing," said one,
"To change from day to day.
"Flitting--like a brainless butterfly-"
Here and away.
"Twas made, in truth, for but a few;
"The rest will idly sit,
"Unnoticing and untouched,
"As it passes
"From decade to decade."

"Tis wrong you are,"
Came the reply.
"Style is a constant thing
"Throughout the ages-"
A superstructure
"Composed of beams from generations past.
"Style is ultimate;
"Each succeeding era
"Brings but a differing shade
"Of definition."

And so they fought,
         Those two black flies.
Each could do naught
         Except surmise.
(Each fly convinced
         His ken was rinsed
                  In the holy water
                           Of truth.)

So engrossed were they
In supposition,
They heard not the sound
Of Armageddon.
         A wand'ring ass
         Going nowhere in particular
         Became, but for an instant,
         The tool of fate:
 He trode upon the offal pile,
And squashed it flat--
Sunk the flies so deep in debate
They ceased to debate at all.

A moral here might be worthwhile.
When 'ere you care to discuss style,

         Don't do it on an offal pile.