Critical Judgment
Young Wordsworth was an egotistic twit
Who thought the cosmos turned upon his soul.
I’m glad I never met the little git
But still he wrote good poetry, all told.
Alexander Pope Comments On “Beach Blanket Bingo”
There’s not much chance of bedding Gidget
When you are a crippled midget.
To Dorothy Parker, On Behalf Of Men
You’re wrong—we’ll make passes
At girls who wear glasses
As long as they’re lasses
With cute, curvy asses.
Ballade Of Health Food
God save us from the health food freaks,
That enervated pallid crew
Of nerdy little tightassed geeks
Who live on tea and veggie stew.
I wish I even vaguely knew
What drives these dopes to munch dry seeds,
To dine on stuff that tastes like glue,
To live on cornflakes, bran, and weeds.
Just gaze upon their hollow cheeks,
Their skin devoid of glow or hue.
When one of them pipes up and speaks
It sounds like death is overdue.
These morons seem to take their cue
From quack physicians whose dull screeds
Insist that one should only chew
On cornflakes, tasteless bran, and weeds.
The young, the middle-aged, antiques—
All sorts are strict adherents to
A diet of dried beans and leeks,
Of fruit juice, yogurt, sprouts. Now who
The hell would choose that witches’ brew
To satisfy his body’s needs?
No person ever thrived or grew
On cornflakes, withered bran, and weeds.
L’envoi:
Prince, advice from me to you:
The state’s endangered by such creeds.
Go after them. String up a few
Who live on cornflakes, bran, and weeds.
Financial Advice To Poets
A poet is a silly sod
If he thinks he’ll earn a wad
Of money from his verse transcendent—
You’d make more as a john attendant.
This has been the decree of Fates
From Homer up to Butler Yeats:
Obscurity and empty purses
Shall dog poor fools who write in verses.
You only turn this trade to bucks
By teaching it to dumber schmucks.
