O Knave, Where Is Thy Poesy?

O Knave, Where Is Thy Poesy?
O Breath, Why Can't Ye Sing?

Now here, a poem that glosses knowledge so
That even clever Pope could not bestow

Pomposities and Priapisms such
As those here found. I fear I am too much

Maligned a Poet to complain at this
Sore treatment—critics whose attacks do miss

Their mark far Left and Right, their barbs embed
In sullen wooden prose whilst my poem's fled

Unto Eternity, where Chaucer and,
Oh, Milton, read my verse with trembling hand

And green-tinged sight. I say, "No worry, lads!
I've read you too, and think you're not half-bad,

For older poets, anyway. Let's drink
Some ale, twist up a blunt, and sit and think

About the stink that now is poetry:
This new free verse seems so like crap to me.

What say ye, Poets?" Chaucer sips his wine
in silence but for slurps. His crooked spine

Is puzzling until I see that, Nope!
That isn't Chaucer after all, it's Pope!

Oops! My mistake. I turn to Master John instead,
In hopes he's him and not misread,

Made Dryden, Milton—Englishmen, both Johns
And easily confused, though that is wrong

As they are very different men. Anon,
I see I'm screwed again. Fuck! Dryden! Dumb

I am, in fact, pick up the check, slip out
The back, and slink away, direction South,

Morale now crumpled, moral set, to wit:
Best know your English poets, lest be labeled twit.