I'm just talking to myself here. Come along with you. I hope Lucy doesn't read D.H. Lawrence.
Free Verse
How beastly the old poets are,
especially the rhymers of the species
with their iambics and their trochees
and (my God) their anapaests and dactyls,
bobbing, bobbing, bobbing along like plastic bloody ducks.
Nicely groomed they are,
spick and span in their natty suitings,
like funguses living on bygone poems,
sucking the life out of the dead pages of the glorious dead.
Reading their horrible rhymes here, there and everywhere,
reading it out loud in the lecture halls and libraries of old England
like over-educated toadstools (did I say that before?)
full of squirminess and worminess
with their posh Oxford voices, the superior gits.
There, I knew I'd get that one in.
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