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