A poet is sitting by the riverside
As he stares blankly into the water
He sees a copycat staring back at him
A poor man’s poet of the people

Once there was the promise of bravura and muster
Now his company is mind-numbing and lackluster

And there’s only one poet to blame
One man who deserves the centerpiece
In this game of shame
For a battologist he has always been

He never cared to forbear
The tedious yet sumptuous curse
Of repeating and echoing
And echoing and repeating

So the poet sits by the riverside
His glazy eyes fixed on a man in the water
Who would like to be a swan
But is doomed to be a vulture
The disciple of an inferior culture