Pretending to be a Poet
Each day I take up pen I’m pretending to be a poet Cos what the hell’s a Shakespeare And why should I have to know it?
Cos who the hell is Eliot, And what on Earth’s a Wasteland? Oh god don’t tell my lecturer That I find the classics are all bland.
No, I write real poems The stuff that’s from the heart, Like the one about my ex Or “Ode to a Pungent Fart”
And actually, while I’m at it I can’t be arsed with sonnets, And bollocks to Rossetti And her maidens and their bonnets.
Cos now its Rupi Kaur And poems in three lines With very few words God forbid I fill my mind.
Down with bloody Lovecraft And his manyracist scandals If his poems were all tweets God for that he’d soon be cancelled
And who gives a shit about Edgar I’m talking Allen Poe Piss of with your nevermore’s Why its famous, I’ll neverknow…
Why aren’t my poems read in schools? No child will ever open them, Perhaps I should kill myself Or at least start smoking opium
I’ll never be as famous As that buggar Mr Kipling His words were bland and dull But my addiction to his cakes is crippling
So I’ll sit for another hour Scanning lines and lines of Yeats All the while I’m dreaming of A thousand better fates
Of standing at a press conference Revealing my sixth collection ‘The Life and Times of Famous Rhymes’ A Dullards Recollection
No more than three words Emblazoned on every page No that’s where poetry’s going In our day and age
I’ll spit on Phillip Larkin While I take up my pen Why should I care for him He’s off down Cemetery Road again
The fathers of the metaphor Of similie and metre Are buried six feet under now While we search for meanings deeper
With noses pressed in schooling books Collections and Anthologies When I’m a teacher you’d better bet I’m issuing apologies
For every child who’s ever heard Of what makes a Sestina, Or who’s clapped their hands in time To Iambic Pentameter
Cos Willy’s crap Lord Byron’s shat And Doctor Seuss is even worse! Cat in the Hat What the fuck is that? Is not even written in Blank Verse!
So while the old fogies yearn For a modern take on Grecian Urn I’m sat in here tryna learn How to perfect that volta turn While all my reading materials burn As I write again of a lover spurned I think this book I shall return Cos If I read I’ll never unlearn These archaic poets, they do concern Me at each and every turn, They’re the kings of yesteryear Their words now fall on Jesters ears While I share poems with my peers To poetic convention I shan’t adhere
No let me say it loud and clear Those old poets have no place here.