Having memorized their features metre by metre,
He recites — or rather — rhapsodizes,
Much like Paul ‘n his silly love songs
Each drippy line foully spending passion,
Passion that should otherwise serve.
Bah! I’ve heard enough poetry.
What’s it worth, anyhow: —
All that romantic Wordsworth fluff
On nature and youth and our connectedness?
Now’s the time for more . . .
Now’s the time for action!
Which forest did feverish words from Tennyson save?
We are fools; he’s right,
Sailing right into the no-go zone
Weakening and weakening, beyond the hope his pen would share;
Weakening and woebegone, like Death’s earliest bloom.
We’ve willed ourselves into irons, when closer to the wind we should sail
Argh! Enough of the stinking telling . . .
The endless, weedy rhapsodizing.
Now’s the time to lead.
Arrest the word, like the sail, and free the heart
Leap off the page . . . Run.