A poem is not prose,
This truth an idiot knows;
But our poets insist upon writings
Of nonsensical, prosaic blightings;
And the pile of waste-paper grows.
A poem is not prose,
But our poets don’t suppose
That all the poems they have writ
For years and years have reeked like shit;
And the pile of waste-paper grows.
A poem is not prose,
But a rose is a rose is a rose;
So the ass who would call himself poet
Is still an ass, and these asses do show it,
As the pile of waste-paper grows.
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