A Poem: I Hate Poetry

By Jason Vines

(I wrote this in response to William Wordsworth's poem "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey," which I had to read in English literature class during our study of the Romantic Era.)

Oh, how this work beguiles my mind!

Now, I must evoke ideas from my 'hind.

If awful this piece shall be,

My indifference will be plain for all to see.

If this poetry does not give audiences pleasure,

Such will not in any way disrupt my leisure,

For poetry is something I do hate.

Why must we read overly lofty language at this late date?

Needless ambiguity to this reader does not sate!

"The burden of the mystery"

Should go to the ash heap of history!

For his wretched piece "Tintern Abbey",

Wordsworth should've been fed to many a tabby.

Is this supposed to be among the best poetry in the land?

To anyone who says yes, I'll just say,

"Talk to the hand,"

For pretentious poets are not worthy of sleeping in hay.

While excessive simplicity can be bad,

Ostentatious convolution is just plain sad.

My stomach poetry does churn,

Almost makes me ready for the urn.

But it does take me a place I've never been before:

Hell, where poetry takes me on a tour.

There I see the Devil, on each side of his head a pointed horn...

No, wait, that's Wordsworth, who is in my side a thorn.

Then from this place I am torn,

And now I see prose,

Spraying all over me like a hose!

Oh, how wonderful this is!

My happiness is bubbling over as if it were fizz!

Please let me remain in this place;

It actually has a pleasant face.