Rile, you of the critic poets,
at this disregard, which mocks
your sense of propriety
regarding entitlement.

Even you, few stuck-up poets,
must feel the edge of your lip
twitch, turning sharp corners round,
leaning to spy grotesque calm.

Nose through as you would, higher poets,
you shall find no garbage here,
within what space you can sniff.
You snotty few can't complain.