It is a singular species of writer
Whose poems makes my sonnets seem loquacious,
And for their brevity shine all the brighter,
Each filled with wit intensely perspicacious.
For who needs fourteen lines when four express
Eternal wisdom on preparing toast,
Then followed by the key to artlessness,
And giving old folk proverbs a riposte?
The facile leaps from silly to profound
Are in the DNA of Piet Hein‘s grooks,
Which started in the Danish underground,
Now found online and in out-of-print books.
But like gems finely cut in color varied,
I think they’ll have a hard time staying buried.