First the poet complained
About poems that have birds in them;
His collection contained twenty or so
Such poems, but this did not bother me.
I didn’t want to like him,
But he was good,
The kind of good that cannot be denied,
Unless you’re too stupid to see it,
Which is the most common situation,
And the biggest reason
That being good doesn’t matter.
The fact that he was or is good
Is or was what bothered me.
How dare someone command words
In such a way as to drive them
Before him like a pretty cattle drive.
The pentameter of their dumb hooves.
In his picture he has a pony tail.
I’ll bet this shit came to him
Like Coleridge or Disney
In a coke dream.
I admit that he is good,
Damned good,
But he’s probably
Just another rat.
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