Here come those poets, pompous, portentous, pretentious,
And precious, feting each other while largely ignored.
Published and prize-winning, poor nonetheless, one must
Ask why they bother to dribble their drivel when rooms
Always empty as they start to speak. "Well, it's art.
It's a calling," they say. I suppose, but a job which pays
Money, a product with use, or, at least, some appeal
When it's heard in the kitchen, would seem much more
Worthy of somebody's time. Go ahead, write. Maybe
Everyone's wrong, and, far off, in an unforeseeable future,
The Philistines, finding your works in the canon, will come
To their senses, and say they were wrong. Probably not.
I know I'm unimpressed, and wishing you'd all move along.