THERE IS A SCHOOL IN IOWA

 

There is a school in Iowa they call the Workshop, son,
It’s been the ruin of many a poet, and me, oh God, I’m one.
Please tell your baby sister, please tell your ma and pa,
You’ll lose your soul and your dignity in that school in Iowa.
You’ll walk into the Workshop, a lover of poetry,
When you come out the only thing you’ll know is vanity.
I stole other poets’ money, and no, it wasn’t a few,
I never read the other poets, and gave the prize to you.
I used to love the metrical, the rhyme and everything,
But now I write stuff that’s pretentious and cute.
Now I dream of fellowships, and prizes and degrees,
Before he died I heard him cry, “Just read my poems, please!”
He studied in the valley, he wept by mountains, wide,
But he didn’t schmooze in the hall with cunning by his side.
He was honest in his heart, he was honest in his soul,
But he forgot to write a blurb, so he fell into a hole.
I’ve got one foot in the contest, I’ve got one foot on the train,
I’m going back to Iowa, to sing this song again.
I’ve got one foot in the contest, I’ve got one foot on the train,
I’m going back to Iowa, where wolves live on the plain.

2 Comments

  1. noochinator said,

    May 14, 2016 at 8:02 pm

    There is a balm in Gilead….

  2. Pijid Frink said,

    May 14, 2016 at 9:43 pm

    Boring poetry is WHERE it’s AT maaaaaaan.


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