Go ahead and chant your juvenilia
Of some poetic past or doomed tomorrow
As agony’s pretended familiar
Or with invented friendship to sorrow
You’ve betrayed reality for the sake
Of tedious metres and pompous rhymes
As you aspire to be some William Blake,
Wordsworth, Keats or Lord Byron of our times
Nonsense to laymen, babbles to masters –
Scribble! Scribble! Scribble! And on and on!
To grandstandingly end the disasters
Your option’s clearly withdrawn or foregone!
Burn! Burn! Burn! Since nobody understands
The best your poems can do is to warm your hands!