I'm thinking of pinning this poem up right over my word processor, as a kind of memento mori, a warning--not of mortality--but of "literary-hood." I recognize the poem it suggests in the second quatrain, having almost perpetrated it several times before having the sense to tear it up. The deflating language is wonderful, culminating in that perfect "golden dung" we need to be so careful of.
The irony, of course, is that this poet clearly deserves everything "poor Septimus" has been spouting. Anybody who doubts that should just look at the rhymes, and the way the tone ranges smoothly from impatience through self-awareness to alert, hard-nosed humility.
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