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On Much Of The Poetry That I Know

Much of the poetry that I know
I think is klutzy mush.
And that which is not klutzy mush
I think is mushy klutz.

Shelley's 'Lines To An Indian Air'
Is a good example now.
He said it was Champak-scented.
Well, I do not know.
All I can smell are diesel fumes
And fresh buffalo dung.
Klutzy mush and mushy klutz,
Ada dada da!

'fI recite 'She Walks In Beauty'
I'm eighteenth century.
Babe magnets wear rapstar bling
And do not sing of love.
L.G.B.T. B.D.S.M.
'S All they prattle of.
Mushy klutz and klutzy mush,
Ada dada da!

'fI speak of 'Lord Ullin's Daughter'
Or Wordsworth's Highland lass,
They'll want to know her Orkut profile,
Gtalk status message,
Who writes on her Facebook wall,
And what's her latest Tweet?
Klutzy mush and mushy klutz,
Ada dada da!

I narrate Haiawatha's wooing
Of fair Minnehaha.
But the arty-tarty lot
Appear at unease.
They ask for darker shades of grey
And whether he has angst.
Mushy klutz and klutzy mush,
Ada dada da!

Who has heard of D. H. Lawrence,
George Gordon, Lord Byron,
T. S. Eliot, Robert Frost,
Or Nissim Ezekiel?
They're not excatly Paul McCartney
Or Mariah Carey.
Klutzy mush and mushy klutz,
Ada dada da!

Poetry's dead n rock lyrics
are all that's left alive.
But oh! There are some people left
Who still write poetry.
Most of them are poetasters,
One of them is me!
Mushy klutz and klutzy mush,
Ada dada da!

Much of the poetry that I know
I think is mushy klutz.
And that which is not mushy klutz
I think is klutzy mush.


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