Poetry? I dislike it. Even so,
I dislike its dislikers even mo’.
I mean the kind of persons in ascent,
Who don’t care what’s intended, what is meant,
Who only care about the show of force,
But words from actions suffer a divorce.
The “rule of law” is one thing; but we see
A crowd which disregards civility,
A slanderous mob, that to itself admits
Contests are won by being hypocrites.
It may be that my charges are not new—
You know yourself—and I see what you do.
The strategies that you espouse but lead
To massacres, to satiate your greed,
And so, as yours may be the upper hand,
Defeat will end what you don’t understand.
Grammar of goodness underlies all thought;
Which, if you have forsaken, you are nought—
A cipher and but counterfeit of human,
Hardly unique in type, mundanely common,
So lay your vanities to rest herewith:
Of you poets will weave no lasting myth,
But—lower than the animals—your swarm
Will die forgotten, having but done harm.