The poet was a pompous ass
And now the man has died, alas—
His verses they have all come down
From off the web, and his renown,
Which he, in life, boldly declared
Perpetual, has disappeared.
That he was loved by one or two,
As man or poet, this I knew,
But men who dish out such contempt
From reciprocity exempt
Will never prove to be, in life
Nor death, this world with malice rife.
He hated homosexuals,
Jews, colored people, and who else?
So picayune, his coterie
Did not have room for even me,
And he made known his great disdain—
Could he have been a soul in pain?
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Frameworks of fame begin to rust,
As seldom anymore you hear
His name, but that is life, I fear—
Perhaps his kindness was reserved
For wife and children, death disturbed.
Perhaps they mourn him and they grieve,
Lamenting that he had to leave;
But let his soul reside in peace
And from life’s malice find release,
Discord he did so much to sow:
Sleep well, apart from worldly woe.
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