Oh, William, others now have ‘attitude’.
Your sonnets broken into Flarf and sent.
The Moderns make more humble pie of you
and some do call your ‘summer’s day’ a vent!
Oh, William, where must soulful poet step
since passion in the line avoids such love?
They know not of pentameter, those shleps!
Or how to rhyme expectant like the dove.
Now, rhyme, they say, a harried gambler’s chance.
Throw words, wired, juxtaposed into the air.
The heart, then, not conditioned for romance.
Egalitarian, each poet shares.
“There’s nothing new beneath the sun”, they squawk.
As each write through the other like a hawk.
(Yesterday’s mention of “Flarf” led me to write the above.)