Oh, William, metaphor is gone from view
Your sonnet is with snickers lately sent.
The Moderns now make mince-meat out of you.
Computers now make ‘summer’s day’ a vent.
Oh, William , where must soulful poet step?
The Moderns have no heart for thoughts of love
They know not of pentameter, those shleps
or how to rhyme expectant like the dove.
Now, rhyme, they say must be a gambler’s chance.
And all the words, wired, juxtaposed through air;
the line is not conditioned for romance.
Egalitarian, each poet shares.
“There’s nothing new beneath the sun”, they squawk.
As each bard copies other like a hawk.