Ode to John Keats
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
are commonplace among the leaves, dear John,
where every rainfall makes my feathers wet
as you, the poet, pace your dry salon
declaiming that the problem in my head
is 'too much happiness.' Can you be real?
Now more than ever do I wish you dead.
Upon the midnight? Fine. Right now? Ideal.
My song is not my leisure, but my duty.
You sit there with your pen and think you're deep.
The truth? Birds have it bad. Enjoy your beauty.
The nightingale must wake so poets sleep.
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