I was a starting poet back when they invented fire,
And after some choice readings they suggested I retire.
They wanted me to sing about my tribe’s genealogy.
But who cares about whose
Father’s dad invented booze,
I liked singing of geology.
I was a learning poet back when Homer was the man.
I actually wrote down my words, which other poets panned.
They said my poems wouldn’t fit inside a three-act drama.
What do they know?
They love the show
Of a king marrying his mama.
I was a wan’dring poet back when it was the Dark Ages.
The Holy Roman Empire closed down all our stands and stages.
Whenever I stopped by court, the ears of mighty kings I hurt,
For ‘love and passion’
Was that year’s fashion,
And I sung about the dirt.
I was a learned poet back when crowds filled the Globe Theater,
Where I still failed amidst what was a great poetry fever.
Sonnets Petrarchan, Spenserian, Shakespearean were the norm.
If you got them made,
You then got laid,
But I never figured out the form.
I was a starving poet when Romanticism reigned,
Finally, an age where poets could a proper wage maintain!
The poets wrote about the heart, and I wrote using mine.
But I lacked meter time,
And my poems did not rhyme.
Well, rhyming’s a bunch of bullshit anyways.
I was a lonely poet back when they spoke it in jazz clubs.
I tried to hang out with the Beats, but they didn’t like my “jazz hugs.”
They all said that my poetry doesn’t follow any rhythm.
Ummmm yes they do.
They totally do.
Like, more than you know, man.
I am an unpublished poet, and after a life eternal,
You can find all of my poetry right here on my LiveJournal.
And now they say my work is much too stiff to be accepted.
It has too many clauses
And lacks... pauses...
Is that more what you expected?
No one ever wanted my poems, after millenniums of trying.
But ‘til I figure how they work, you’ll bet I’ll be applying.
Them, that is. The poems.
To publication. Maybe I should edit this stuff.
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