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Ode to Old Dead White Renaissance Men

Having strayed far from art
Oh, Marvell. Oh, Donne. Oh,
Jonson and Sometime Wyatt,
forgive our modern blunt
Orgies of words

Pastoral shepherds are dead,
so much for their snatch of
sweetness to dampen their want

Pining poets deflowering tulips
have been shot for their vague
caresses, loitering near the iron
gates of life

Mowers grip their flaccid scythes
in death, forgotten and rotten are
their hot July desires

No. No need to complain in
metered rhyme just to be
denied. Give it to us straight
and hard

We'll take it all the same

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