Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff? It’s all Gobbledygook to me! As far as I’m concerned you can just stick Your iamb up your fat pentameter. Wink. And I don’t care whether some of it Is like common speech. Or clever for being slightly incorrect. Wink.
So why do lilies have to mean death When they are nothing but fracking flowers? What’s with all these virile horses And apples that are supposed to be bosoms? They are bladdy animals and fruit For heaven’s sake! Nothing more, nothing less.
All this Moon in June stuff. All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying And unrequited love. All sentimental words And Repetition. I’d rather read a tome like a car manual: At least it tells you something You can use in real life.
Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me. All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus. And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot With his cruel Aprils and his Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est. Vita illius.
And while I’m at it. Who needs history when we live in the present? Art is no use whatsoever. Give me a hammer and a spanner Any day. Leave those luvvies to their childlike play And ballet dancers to their pillockettes. Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa. Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats. Poetry? No bladdy thanks. (Written for some Friends. Winks. At too great a length For most).