The dilettante sits.
He writes with ease
No blockage or freeze.
Steady stream, no fits.

His subject, loose.
The daily chores,
his daily bores.
Whatever, it suits.

“Art, it’s so easy!
I know not why they complain,
them with their effort and strain
Of talent, they must be needy!”

Scansion? He knows not the word
Poems? Of course they rhyme!
Alliteration? Always on time.
Sloppy metre, it leaves him undeterred.

Poetaster a comely mantle,
Charlatan a natural guise,
Accomplishment? Ha! Mere lies –
So counts the lyric vandal.


Posted on September 22, 2014, in Pink Poesy and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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