Tearthem For Their Bad Verses

O Cinna man,where you gonna run to? O Cinna man,where are you gonna hide? What's with poetry which makes us all blue? Your verses we can no longer abide Most of us labour on the foothills of Parnassus Being no more than dross among the gold We are but pygmies beside any Colossus Yet we want our poems to applause unfold Our thirst we cannot slake from the Pierian spring Our dryness burns deep into every scroll 'Tis no wonder that our poetry does not sing. Why do we bother our heads to write at all? It must grieve the bounteous Muses Who long to hear the song of songs Their gifts they do not refuse us So why do we so often get it wrong?