He was not a person of notable continuity
Yet he wrote poems given to promiscuity
With his prose displayed rather feebly,
He embarked to write rather inconceivably
___
Other poets displayed nothing but scorn
for this illiterate who was always forlorn
Who dared write the intent of his heart
with words given to despicable remark
___
To the formalist he was a poor excuse,
and for free verse he was more a recluse
Yet with persistence he continued to write
until someone murdered him during the night
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It has been a thousand years to the day
Did you know what I heard someone say?
That his poems were being read in the street,
and people were crying, standing to their feet
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His words somehow had found their way
into the libraries and theaters of the day
For every literate who could read a book,
understood the language they mistook
___
His generation thought him quite deranged
with his words so backward and badly arranged
And now, his prose was raising the dead
Yes, leaning against walls banging their head
___
All these skeletons were breaking their bones,
dead poets making their unbelievable moans
for this dead “artist” who’d become the rave.,
Me, I just turned over, and over, in my grave