Where's the Juice

So you think you are a poet, but your work, it don’t show it Lots of Yeats and Shakespeare rip offs; Wordsworth aped, many spin-offs Puerile nonsense, bibs and bows, weep for me, and wipe my nose “I’m an expert,” what a laugh! why’d you write such utter chaff! Hymns and sermons in profusion, writ with gnostic’s odd confusion But where’s “the juice,”the meat and gravy? Please no more on curls and baby Writing poetry is a thrill, not twee lines to make one ill; so why not pen about real life; hearts, emotions, hormones, strife? (With apologies to the late Charles Bukowski )