Good sirs, Where has my ink run off the page? Is this the basis for your argument? Stop drooling like lizards in heat, And maybe I shall write my epic one day. I do not care for your silly flowers or your Raging alcoholic heroes. I have a refined taste for withering vines And shivering cowards in the cold lights of Moscow. Sighs, and thighs. And a bit of sexual abandon. Well, you may cry all you want about Poetic justice Your mother's home-cooked potatoes And the moon's invisible string. That is not poetry, it is maudlinery. Here is my will, my eulogy, the shavings from the etchings on my tombstone. Here is the very shine of my eyes, The moment they closed forever. There is your poetry, Full of the angst and cowardess That mocks the ashes of God.
I give you my best for this one, and not just because you used "mother's home-cooked potatoes" and "maudlinery" in the same poem. But because it is very good indeed.
