There’s not much music in poetry now,
the poets have taken an austerity vow,
thread-bare lines, no rhythm or rhyme,
con-man words, artistic pantomime?
Lyricists shunned, unless rocking a mike,
It’s not what the Professors like!
Too confused by much now written,
Like abstract art, the critics smitten
by works that display very little skill,
I'd rather view Andrew Wyeth’s hill.
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