These poets of the old make no sense
Unless you seek scholarly reference,
Know their lives from birth and hence
Read every critic’s attack and defence,
And of those writers of dinosaurs’ times,
Many of whose lost works are counted in dimes
And only one single text now shines
Driven to depths with nonchalant rhymes.
To all of ye famous writers of the old,
Pardon my forwardness, may I be so bold,
Your works have a base of rusty gold,
You lustre through time, so I’ve been told.
What matters it now of Achilles’ fury?
What matters of Macbeth’s soul to free
From self-pity, guilt and a walking tree?
Must I so care for you so long dead?
Must I write a thesis on the worth of your head?
You won’t bring change, December or May,
Nor would your descriptive self save the day.
Hence, excuse me, reading classics I do dread,
I’d rather read Rowling and go to bed.
By- Manny D
02/04/14
No comments:
Post a Comment