My poetry is lowbrow, you can tell it by the rhyme.
There’s no sound of silent thunder, or crossing of the Rhine.
No, my topics are pedestrian, not polo-brunch-equestrian.
English teacher fits, my grammar surely gives.
I’m never shy to boldly split all my infinitives.
Needing a corrective spanking, I make participles that dangle.
But I like to think they do so always at a jaunty angle.
I never remember all the parameters of poetry in bloody iambic pentameter.
Determinations about which foot gets stress
are made by dice and random guess.
Sometimes its fast and sometimes its slow
Because good meter would require I know
I’ll make no apologies for rhyming like a rock star.
You mean you can’t rhyme “red scare” with “hot tar?”
Yes, my poetry, it’s lowbrow. If you don’t like it I’ll understand.
There’s no deep symbolism or vast descent of man.
But if you don’t like it, you can spare me all the sass.
Rather than tell me about it, you can kiss my wriggling bass.