Wasted Volumes

Rabelaisian by comparison,
Wife-of-Bathish, Molly-Bloomish, spilling
Out in abundance over everything,

That’s the contrast. But you see, it must be
Only in proportion, physically,
To something dainty, where restraint’s admired,

Or something fiercely ascetic, cinched in.
It can’t be excessive if it isn’t
Considered disgusting in that outfit,

That genre, that mannered situation.
It has to be awful for what it is,
Has to overflow the proper canals,

Spill its tub of guts among the narrow
Waisted volumes of lyric poetry.