I could not stand withered rimes any more.
So, I went searching for a full-blown teacher,
A sensible scholar of proven age,
A sound retainer of past ages' wisdom,
Whose pragmatics may consistently swing
From theory to practice, someone heartfelt,
No imitator, perhaps an uncanny
Sharpshooting fermenter of originality
Of ineffable semantic ambitions
Who might even indulge in metalanguage.
The literary-care centre of my dreams
Casts words as true protagonists of poetry;
Its coach ought to be subject to critique,
Able to prove that poetry is neither
About punchy one-liners nor fake lyricism.
I need to be taught by someone for whom
Aesthetic elaborations are pointless.
Maybe by someone like W. H. Auden,
Who argues that banality and climaxes
Are ever present in poems of sorts.
Enough of sentimentalized jargon...
The point, oh bro, and that couldn't be cuter,
Is that the flesh is sad, alas, and I
Am not in the mood to reread all books...