Oooh, so you wanna write a poem like mine, huh?
You can try, son. But I’m a serious poet.
And you’re not. A superior poet
because I use words like “incandescent”
to make folks know I’m smart.
I write poems that draw folks in, make them tap
their chins, take a sip of vodka/scotch/gin
(and tonic on rocks). Because I rock.
And you don’t rock.
You try to be a comedy poet. And comedy ain’t
allowed in poetry, see. So step back and marinate
in your idolatry. Of me! I’m a super-poet.
A grammar, grammar, slamma jamma
uber poet.
The better-thans know I’m better than you.
My yours and theres and commas in the right spots
make everyone everywhere get tingly in spots.
When they read what I write,
they want to wear elbow patches
and smoke a professorial pipe.
Because my words are top-notch,
and your words are hype. Buuuurrrrn.
And you rhyme. (shudder) Don’t you know rhyming needs to go.
You should focus on the fancy and not on the flow.
Oh, and quit using end-rhymes. Unless, of course,
they’re part of a form. Because that’s a normally
accepted poetry norm. All the important poem
knowing people agree only that kind of rhyme
is tolerably poemy. Oh, you can’t write a poem
like mine. I write “cacophony” instead of “noise.”
I condense 'cause real poets don’t belabor points.
And I’m a real poet. You’re a joke.
I got an MFA in my pocket,
so I’m more knowy-knowy
than average folk.
Damn, you want to write a poem like mine, huh?
You can try, son.
But I’ve been legitimized by all the legitimizers.
And you’re a street bar poet
with a life’s-hard look.
And my poetry? Well, my poetry’s textbook.
I’m okay with being stuffy
because it means I know my stuffy.
You throw in the funny, but the
funny comes undoney ’cause
the in-the-club-poets agree,
see, that the words you pen
ain't poetry.