To my despair, our friend, the pseudo poet
Conceals from all his fuzzy thoughts inchoate
With fancy layouts, grammar on the rack.
Obscurity the core of his attack
Upon the mind, to solemnly insist
On subtle depths that really don’t exist.
All rules he sets aside, metre and rhyme,
To make untrammelled imagery the prime
Requisite, or so he says, and yet,
Reading his stuff, what insights do we get?
The cogency is ours. From thickets dense
The cozened reader flushes his own sense.
Why him? Why can’t I too take up this game,
Fool self-appointed pundits with my claim
To represent the Muses? I’ll be bound
I too can make prosaic seem profound.
Yet disapproving conscience bans that plot.
He may class it with the arts….But I cannot!