A poem’s a little flame
That dies unless we fan it,
Not so much with a reader’s love,
But that the government ban it.

The poem as publicity stunt
Must be planned for hours;
Or you can be like Wordsworth,
And just write poems on flowers.

Emerson smote the amateur
Obsessed with rule and rhyme;
That crap about the Soul
Gets them every time.

Emerson’s godson, William,
Did the Nitrous oxide test,
In a trance, at a seance,
And Gertrude did the rest.

Free verse! What a scream!
At Lady Ottoline’s dance
The professor fell for the banker
At a glance.

The parish of rich women
Which by Joyce & abstract art was fed,
Gave their souls to ‘Poetry,’
By their silken tresses led.

Ransom said that writing
Should not be amateurish,
“My colleagues’ poetry is something
Colleges can nourish.”

Robert Lowell got God,
Then ran to his master’s wife
To name names of all the women
In Tate’s writing life.

Mark Van Doren, Columbia prof,
Assigned Ginsberg a book.
“William Blake drugged me!” Ginsberg
Said, when interviewed by Look.

Ted Hughes was not prepared
For what a woman could do.
And judging by that anthology,
Neither were you.

The poem as publicity stunt
Made me famous before;
It was on,
In two thousand and four.


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