If

If modern poets sometimes plead

that Nature’s worth invoking,

their readers need to take the lead

and give those poets a poking.

If poking doesn’t come to much,

don’t traumatize yourselves.

They’ll soonest know they’re out of touch

when books rot on their shelves.

If daffydillies toss and nod,

tumbling down the hill,

name that poet a daft old sod:

we’ve more than had our fill.

If ‘grove’ and ‘streamlet,’ ‘stars’ and ‘eve’

are tortured by semantics,

don’t respond, but sigh and leave

Romantics to their antics.

If poets’ future works annoy

more than life can stand,

it’s up to readers to employ

fresh arms that come to hand.

If shepherds frolic with their lasses

upon the grass so green-o,

shove those rhymes up poets’ asses

where they can’t be seen-o.

If bonny birdies chirp in trees,

stuffing up the day,

use chain-saws on the poets’ knees;

there’ll be no more display.

If nothing works and Nature’s grown

greater than she oughta,

readers must (let it be known!)

indulge in ritual slaughter.