[Susan McLean]

Who killed John Keats? It can’t have been a journal.
No matter how he suffered from reviews,
I doubt he hailed the skiff to parts infernal
in deference to hostile scribblers’ views.
If the faint damns of pundits proved eternal,
who would be left for critics to abuse?
No, take my word, the fault was in his lungs.
No weapon’s feebler than reviewers’ tongues.

The Cockney Robin met a killing frost
in spite of winging south to sunny Italy.
When hacks or quacks advised him to get lost,
perhaps the sickly songster took them literally.
The Rubicon and then the Styx he crossed,
his self-penned epitaph complaining bitterly
of ditties that he’d writ, that none had known ‘em.
Alas, poor chirper! But nil nisi bonum.