Lord, Rig us live chat, prayed Vergilius, then
After Dante had
anted an ode and pressed “send”
Ah, Pops, IMs Sappho,
I’m soooo not impressed,
Uh, moans Housman, discreetly,
it’s far from your best,
I’m afraid, twits Ruth Pitter,
It’s rather tripe, truth,
Arch-Hyena Turd! flames forth from Hayden Carruth,
And, tweets Andre Breton,
it is so barren-toned,
scumming, types Cummings (who’s probably stoned),
Pure boor trek and drek, texts irate Rupert Brooke,
Didn’t ogle! crowed Coleridge,
Not worth a look!
Rote stench cables Chesterton, full of dismay,
It’s a sham, arty go, skypes in sad Thomas Gray,
It was
lavishly caned by a loud Vachel Lindsay,
Deemed
insipidly hep by Sir Philip Sidney,
Sniffed James Merrill, obliquely,
A smarmier jell,
Asked for help, Ogden Nash just
gnashed, No, go to Hell!
Hugh Jest-Hampton