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 )
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