Fast-walking past Timpsons',
I hear Attic Dithyrambs
In eternal rhythmic voyage
The Adjectives of Ancients
Crowd my senses, deliciously:
Artless and cretinly, everyone turns away
Quite leisurely into the bus station,
And I alone walk among these
Uninquiring minds
I will shell out for an unruled real faux leather notebook
Uncle Harold, you don't know what Poetry means;
otherwise, you might have got me a quaint old anthology
dense and esoteric, with Spender and Ezra,
for my twenty-third
And not the Readers' Digest Word Power Dictionary you sent off for with coupons:
sure, I know what quixotic means
and how to spell weird, and conceited,
but name two ways they apply to me? How will I confront
the unremitting suffering of my existence
with a list of Celebrity Anagrams?
True? or False? Poetry is Dead,
and with it, the bespirited core of commonman:
I will submit my first volume as a .pdf