The poem is retchworthy but the responses are LOLville.
In Pegasus Descending (anthology of bad poetry), there is a poem that starts thusly:
Another sin I had forgot:
that hog I killed in my back lot.
Somehow, somewhere, right now, there must be a poet with PETA credentials penning something in the same vein as the ass poem. Perhaps it will be less in the sentimental vein and more in the rabid anger category -- but it won't be a very good poem.
We humans are subject to what I call "false" emotions. Sentimentality is one -- crying into your beer, or idealizing concepts such as "childhood" or "America," or personifying the blessedly unhuman beasts. And so is rabid anger of the knee-jerk anti-this, anti-that type.
Poets have to dig past the false, into the true.
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