I’m off to Bermuda
While you’re up the creek!
I cruise like old money;
You float like a freak.

As you steer between rocks
In that ****** canoe,
You’re a maritime nuisance
Obstructing the view.

My luxury vessel
Steers clear of the sharks;
You paddle and fulminate,
Studying Marx.

Your dugout is leaking;
I’m greasing the skids.
The dividends pay out
to bankroll my kids.

My profits accrue
While you seethe at your bosses.
You rail at the system—
I minimize losses.

I cruise into port.
Our hotel is reserved…
Your bitter resentment
Means dinner is served.

Departures are blissful;
We glide into harbors
And dine amidst hollyhocks
Under the arbors.

The banquet is served:
An idyllic location—
But you merely murmur
In disapprobation.

So scratch my maid’s Tesla
(or blow up a dealership…)
Rattle your chains
While insulting my captainship.

I’m by the pool—
You can splash in your gutter.
I’ll leave you a tip
For some bread with your butter.

You’re clearly, clearly not a poet, Frank;
More a symptom of modernist sickness.
Inflict no further such rambling thickness
Upon your readers. Here it is point-blank:
Beat-up prose scribblers’ quaint observations
May charm their author—but bore us to tears.
Dull poems age poorly. The passing years
Condemn them as quirky obfuscations.

Your buddy Ashbery: another dud,
Remembered by Department Heads, at best:
Abstract expressions that fall with a thud.
Bury them in a chap-book with the rest
Of the beatnik bards, whose typing careers
Only confirm our worst poetic fears.

Deserving all reviling, loathing, curse;
To be an art critic-- can it get worse?
Imagine appearing before the Lord,
In Christ's own kingdom, God's glory restored:
The One you ignored now judges your soul.
Your life is reviewed, opened like a scroll—
He looks through your motives, your soul, and heart.
Did you have faith?   Well... I wrote about Art.

Perhaps there exists something even worse...
Worse than atheist critics (and my verse):
Scribes who are devoted to Rock and Roll,
Rap, R & B, Pop in part or in whole.
Condemned by their works and their words alone:
The drivel they scribble for Rolling Stone
Must be answered for on the Judgement day
(Which none of them believed in anyway.)

Promoting silly lies by weakest links,
Global mental illness rattles its chains.
Truth smells refreshing—decadence stinks;
Confused men experience labor pains.
Leftist academics consult their shrinks;
Fabians murmur: “it’s stunning and brave”—
Your Marxist professor, the drag-queen, winks.

South crosses North in a permanent wave;
Gringos enforce it; Hispanic hope sinks.
America clearly has lost the plot;
Abuelita scowls while your tio blinks.
Plebeians still know what elites forgot;
Campesinos mock the deviant kinks—
Morenas are laughing at godless whites.

Sell it to the masses in pastel pinks.
Wrap it up nice with aid and human rights.
Promote it harder. We’ll finish the drinks—

    There IS a right way to pronounce “LatinX"!