These flowered verses have no pull
Upon my heart, they’re over full
Of pallid couplets, twee and dull
Your talk of sunsets makes me ill.
I will not be your goddess muse
upon a pillar; swift to bruise,
Yourself with Keats, do not confuse,
My life’s my own concern to choose.
I care not for your bleeding heart,
Your wound for Calliope’s art,
So grow a pair! You useless fart
And from my timeline, please depart.
All Rights Reserved, Alicia Fitton 2016
If you liked this poem, read Moorland (Betrayed)