Poets may write of fancies fair
in terminal angst or flat despair,
compelled their glorious pains to share -
I don’t care!

Poem on poem is showcased there
with a crown of paste in its touzled hair,
pouting an insolent debutante stare -
I don’t care!

Verses scrabble to climb the stair,
bare and blunt are the words they wear,
poor and weak are the dreams they bear -
I don’t care!

Nowhere else does the writer swear
that others should from this form forbear,
then hurry to incest then and there -
I don’t care!

If a poem is nice and a poem is fair
its nails won’t scratch and its teeth won’t tear.
Let a poem that’s weak be dragged by the hair -
I don’t care!

Spectators crowd round a warring pair,
the forum quakes in the blazing air,
let the admins say, tut tut, there there!
I don’t care!

I shall stamp my feet on the floor so bare,
I shall clap my lily white hands in the air,
I shall wash my hands of the Poem so rare -
I don’t care!