A Reprimand

O sentimental, anemic,
writers of bad poems
in a bad time.
we will pay dearly
for the wrong:
for our foul tunes.

Down in Elysium dwell
poets gone lang syne;
but we shall not show our
bald faces there,
our bald souls.
We are attracted to errors
like flies to excrement:
like old women to yarn.
We spin mere dross that no voice
will repeat.

Like children to pleasure,
like profligates to sin.
We eat our nonchalance.
Too easy on the John
we issue it over and over
and over again.