An Ode to Hyperbole, Mistress of the Season

O hyperbole! How thou dost my laughter
Ring from lo, thy many invocations!
How indeed hast thou such deft and graceful
Might to, with a mere few syllables of
Unthought blatheration, sever any
Prospect of respect from e'er accruing
To thy loyal servants and disciples?
Such a rare and wondrous gift thou givest,
Op'ning mouths and closing intellects and
Eyes (though whether brain was e'er engaged, I
Dare not make presumption, oh, not ever),
Yielding such hilarity as ever
Made a villain roar in cruel amusement.
Yea, thou hast a conundrum contriv'ed:
I, a heterodox yet no villain,
Forecasting the truth's inevitable
Vindication, deeply wish thy solid
Grasp upon so many were the lesser;
Little would give pleasure more than yet to
Separate the comic'ly absurd from
Those whose happiness I wish to see, yet
Slav'ry to thy bitter thirst addicted.
Carry on, hyperbole, until through
Surfeit of thine own inane outrages
Merriment give way to gentler respite,
Once again, lucidity arriving.