Modern Verse

The new measure of popularity

Is not a matter of shoes, nor Chanel

But in how well you butcher poetry

Cheering, as your sad attempts at prose swell

Into the butter of public acclaim

You slop words around like chocolate spread

Mesmerized by fifteen minutes of fame

That fade like static before you hit bed

We remember Shakespeare, a pioneer

Who drove English onward, to graceful heights

They’ll remember you with shaken heads, jeers

Snipe over your clumsy tripe with delight

Poetry is an art, a discipline

Your diary entries, carcinogens

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