His poetastry sucks ink
and rorschachs paper:
it's a windbag, a kite without
a string, prose in broken lines,
camp and cant, bilge, blather, and poppycock.
Its diction is a harlequin with a thesaurus.

He misinterprets dead poets
whose sharp skills scalp his sacrilege.
He's a shyster ego-tripping
up the ladder of the layman's ignorance
of what poetry is all about.

His fame lionizes lame ideas.
His thoughts burn like a straw fire.
He's a tin man yellowbricking Oz.



































































































His poetastry sucks ink
and rorschachs paper:
it's a windbag, a kite without
a string, prose in broken lines,
camp and cant, bilge, blather, and poppycock.
Its diction is a harlequin with a thesaurus.

He misinterprets dead poets
whose sharp skills scalp his sacrilege.
He's a shyster ego-tripping
up the ladder of the layman's ignorance
of what poetry is all about.

His fame lionizes lame ideas.
His thoughts burn like a straw fire.
He's a tin man yellowbricking Oz.