Ode To An Heroic Trio: a Contra Diction

Hear Me, O Muse, no moos or cluckings, muckings or horns of fog Do sound the clamoring claxons of the bardics that be written by William McGonagal o’ the Bog, That Laird of Lamentations Disastrous, that Scot Wha’ Hey Nonny Nonny, Laureate of the quite awful woeful grueful stuff that happened a-when Goode Queen Victoria was stuck-in in Buckingham and Balmoral and the rest, recall ‘em, of her palaces oh so very bonny, All about bridges steel a-budging, assassinations most foul all gone kerplooey, And many and other suchlike things dire. And then that tasty poetaster who be Known far and near for all his poems fair about domestical bliss most sweet a-cloying, Edgar Guest, good ol’ scrivener of the everyday, of pathos and bathos does he sing, Garden paths and bubble baths and let’s not be forgetting the good ol’-fashion verities, A poet to speak for everyone no matter who or how finicky, he’s. Let’s round down to an even three with Rod McKuen, syrupy-treacly and saccharine, Escape from thought and subject and technique and all things stern or black-and-grim, As sure as roses are red and violets are blue And God made the little green apples red but once in a while green too. I swear I cannot live unless I’m able to read them many times per diem, At work, at home, in bed, or sometimes while at my BM.