Snarky Raven

The Snarky Raven
—for monday love

Once upon a snarky dreary—
While I pondered weak & weary
Over many a snarky tome
Of forgotten Snore…

While I nodded—
Nearly napping
Suddenly there came
An Awful Snapping…

“’Tis some tacky Modernist—
I muttered to myself, some
Creep busily Snarking at
My bedroom door…

Distinctly PoMo—
I remember, snorting
Overwrought, pacing my
Midnight boudoir floor…

Eagerly I sought—
Surcease from sorrow
Sorrow for my Lenore—
Dead poetry’s Muse…

Silken and uncertain—
Only Poe could soothe me
Behind every purple curtain
From Terror nevermore…

Deep into darkness peering—
Long I stood there fearing
Those snarky Language Poets
Lurking, smirking at my door.

Sir or Madame I implored—
Especially Ezra Pound and
Your lover Madame Eliot
“’Tis you and nothing more…”

And the only word I heard—
Spoken there in evil Darkness
Murmured back an eerie Echo
Snarky Poetry please nevermore!

Ghostly grim Allen Ginsberg—
Wandered in from the Dark Shore
Blithering Modern Confessional Bore
Slithering at my bedroom door…

Next beside my Chamber Pot—
Pale Pallas and Miss Proust
Ghastly grim from what Parisian
Circle of Hell worse than Dante?

So foul their Modernist discourse—
Unlike Edgar Allan Poe and
Edna St. Vincent Millay both
So beguiling, kosher & gay…

Ghostly, gaunt, morose—
Modernist poets of yore
Like Baudelaire the First to
Really hate the Bourgeoisie…

Quaff, oh quaff my quill!!!
Drink deeply the ink of Despair
Help me to pen my way out
Of this smarmy PoMo quagmire…

Be gone Desolate Dank Muse—
Horror Haunted Modernist
Putrid Poetry of the Dark Crypt
Rhythm-less Rhyme-less Snark!!!!

But the Modernist Raven—
Simply smirked so smarmily
Hiding in the stained Wainscoting
Until some other Haunted Night…