Here’s some real deep-end criticism for you, Rick: the poem is missing three l’s: till, till, hoi polloi. “Hoi polloi” is of course a supercilious way of referring to the masses, though it’s often mistakenly used for the elite; I couldn’t tell which you had in mind. To be really pedantic, it’s also plural. The depth of these comments is a measure of my subtlety as a critic.
Overall, I find the poem a tour de force—a restrictive form maintained with a light touch, a wild proliferation of images and allusions that cohere over so many lines, precisely and strikingly worded, mesmerizing, philosophical, apocalyptic: “The three men I admire most, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, they caught the last train for the coast. The day the music died.”
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