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Poets are dreadful fucks. Even back then
they were clueless, blaming the moon above
for their limp cocks. Heh, the English! The times
have changed but we’re still required to read
that cock-sucker Wordsworth in class. Please, bleed
all the fun from poetry with forced rhymes
that add zilch, nothing, nada. What’s this “Love
not, ye hapless sons of clay” crap? Again,
I say, these drip-dick lads are not worthy
of our time. I’ve fist-fucked Eros. I’ve let
Venus put her spliff out on my sorry
rawhide. Forget these daffodils. Forget
these two-hundred year old virgins. Poets
should be sick fucks: neon-cunts, cock-sprockets.
memories of my ghost sista 