By: Spencer Schwartz
When shows on PBS run short Another told his history
They often fill the time A childhood of abuse
With poets reading poetry Who wants to know of others’ woes
That never have a rhyme Inspiring as a noose
The people in the audience Those stories aren’t poetry
Enjoy it I suppose Nor timeless as the Tao
But I must be a simpleton I’d rather hear of moon and June
To me it sounds like prose Or Nash’s purple cow
I always thought that sonnets had Who says good writing can’t be fun
A structure that was set Designed to make one smile
With stanzas and a metric beat To wallow in self-pity seems
But theirs I just don’t get A quite ignoble style
Attempting to look meaningful I’m sure the intellectuals
Their themes are always sad Will scoff at my ideas
And rather than significant Believing humor childish
I find their pap just bad And rhyme worth only sneers
A woman read a piece about But why write verse that’s so morose
Her brother who was gay Or purposely abstruse
He made a sandwich that she liked To make one cry or mystify
Then shortly passed away Is an “ode-ious” excuse.
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