It is an ancient palimpsest,
Scraped and rescraped constantly.
It is almost seared by friction-fueled gyres
Wrought lots but thoughtfully.

Like tides that score the sandy shore
And make the strand land thin,
Effacing zest on palimpsest
Makes it thin like brittle skin.

’Twas written on by many hands
Over the centuries.
Perhaps inscribed on it were tunes—
Or even parodies.

’Tis old and ’tis exceedingly dry…
Many times erased, filled.
Years pass; many more years pass by;
Yet still, it is not hole-drilled.

Perhaps some ancient wrote a poem
And upon it spilled beer,
Instilling a slight hue of tan…
One still can see a smear.

The seers come near to gape and peer
At strata of the doc.
They do not smirk; they know the drill:
Forge on; forget the clock.

To plumb the crevice depths they’ll get
Select microscopy.
To hone their sight, electron light
And radiography.

Tighter and tighter they make their gaze—
These technologies a boon.
They make mere specs appear large flecks
Of ink evincing a rune.

Made large are scribblings so small
The naked eye can’t see.
Distinguished is the ancient prose.
Could it be ribaldry?

The lexic-questers are impressed
At this peering without peer.
They are a scientific clan,
Yet lexically they leer

A palimpsestic porn they’ll see
Through lenses that are strong?
Scribes have been expressing such things
For times transcending long.

Of sloping masts and dripping prows,
And other actions that may show
On vellum once as white as snow.
Perhaps such will be read.
This old-time trash could make teeth gnash
In those not profane-led.

As deep and deeper in they go
To the substrate so old,
Next thing they spy arrests the eye:
A story boldly told

Of some dimwits who were misfits,
With thinking none too keen.
They could not ken a lot, but then
All’d seen too much obscene.

The vice was there…seemed everywhere;
The vice was all around.
Could men in cowls that hid their jowls
Have been dirty and down?

They came across an all but lost
Very well-known name
Back in the day, on that vellum roll,
But fleeting was his fame.

’Twas in the days prior to the tweet—
To spread then what was new,
First it was written, and then it
Was passed from view to view.

The result: readers always behind;
Such “news” was hard to follow.
It might take days ere one could gaze
On stories in which they’d wallow.

Apprising crowds that might be wowed
Required prose that’s sublime.
Those who could write well took delight
Effectively as mimes.

Much scraped, this ancient palimpsest
That is causing such a fuss.
They look below with scope to know
Much—smudges, scrawls they suss.