Eliot was the best. Now dead.
So Beck-hams seek to write instead.
And then there was Shelley
clubbed to death with a wellie,
Wordsworth sometimes was quite fun
that wordsmith now beneath the sun,
and then there was the great Sappho,
gangrene after removal of her toe,
Shakespear - little time for him,
sadly lacking depth and rythym,
My favourite perhaps is Homer
bled out, amputated mid boner,
Sometimes I think of young Ted Hughes
that I know better. As do you.
Michael Emine
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dead-poets-lack-of-society/
