Look, he\'s done it again! I should be prominently positioned and
you should be over there, in the third stanza, and that plebeian
phrase two lines down should be banished. Dreadful! Sloppy, just sloppy!
Well, he never claimed to be a poet. He always says: \"I\'m just
a verse writer.\"
I know, but a poem is meant to flow with delicate majesty. At least
all the words should be in the right places, powerful words and gentle
words and haunting words. Oh, a poem is an expression of the soul,
not an amateurish arrangement of words, not a childish \"now what
rhymes with Pocatello.\" I\'ll wager he uses a dictionary of rhyming
words when he scribbles all that silliness about his toothache or
that insufferable \"Ode To A Toadstool\". How many absurd topics
can one man conjure? A poet. Ha!
Well, you have to...
Don\'t defend this amateur word arranger. Now move to your
proper place at the end of this sentence. Only elegant words gather
here. Every word has its place in the perfect poem, a lesson yet
to be learned, obviously. Forgive him, Poet Gods, this Wordsworth
wanna\'be and all his illegitimate, ill-formed scratchings. Relegate
this pseudo poetry to its final resting place, adjacent to the
obituaries in the morning newspaper. Page 47 will do. Cheeky
sod!