All these poets now.
If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.
God, I hate poetry!
If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.
God, I hate poetry!
Thumper’s mother said
it: all these poets standing tall,
all these poets now,
it: all these poets standing tall,
all these poets now,
so they’ll be picked out in a
crowd—
they sing and shout and have a ball.
God, I hate poetry!
they sing and shout and have a ball.
God, I hate poetry!
It’s that divine-afflatus
stuff—they’ve all heard the call,
these poets now,
stuff—they’ve all heard the call,
these poets now,
the ones who are prowling at my
back door:
there’s Walt himself in denim overalls,
and all these others now—
they really have a sweaty
brow,there’s Walt himself in denim overalls,
and all these others now—
shvitsers all
these poets now.
God, I hate poetry!
