COMPLAINT

Of all the poems poets write,

Regardless if they're wrong or right,

The ones that jar my mind the most

Are those which of their talents boast.

That intellect should choose to brag

Is seldom other than a drag.

With academic scholarship

Such poets give my soul the pip.

I'd like to ask them: "How succeed

With poems so difficult to read

That people turn to other things,

Preferring what their message brings?"

Indeed, the more they strive to fake

The less poor mortal minds can take

Until, with tower on a hill,

They find their sales are almost nil.

Yet even those whose pompous tones

Near shakes the marrow in your bones

Would seem to need the kiss of death,

To take away such foul breath.