Treading Lightly Over a Dead Poet

You flounce as if you were an ostrich fan all fluffed up on the page waving at posterity. I nibble at your chicken livers, occasionally swing from your bell-ringing images that dare to delight me, but you peck at words too much and those long pauses when you take a bow are tedious. Sorry to see that you are dead, when you were alive reviewing your work was a lot easier, now I have to praise you just to show I care.