On a Villanelle: Tracking Oscar’s Theocritus

I do not like the villanelle;

the terseness points up want of sap.

It’s time the form lurched off to hell.

Since Hades burst forth from his cell,

bore ‘Sepphie down for poke and slap,

I do not like the villanelle.

She’s serving out her six-month’s spell

where Oscar tops dead Theo’s rap:

it’s time the form lurched off to hell.

When all those ghosts both poets sell

thresh and wail in their trap,

I do not like the villanelle.

They’re gone, have rotted where they dwell,

but still the poets chant and clap:

it’s time the form lurched off to hell.

Bucolic bliss that fronts love’s knell

is living toss before the wrap.

I do not like the villanelle.

Why wonder at what poets tell?

They lie when squeaking out such crap.

I do not like the villanelle;

It’s time the form lurched off to hell.