I hate the callow ones who think they’re scholars
And have therefore the right to criticize.
I hate the ones who charge me twenty dollars
So I can try to win a ten-buck prize.
I hate the ones whom I can irritate
By sending poems two places at one time,
As if a geezer old as I should wait
For months on end to thus avoid this crime.
I hate the ones who work from one to three,
Then try to claim they’re buried in submissions.
I hate the ones who get all panicky
When they read something smacking of tradition.
I hate the fact that rhyme will get the hook.
That anything didactic’s thought most crass,
I hate that poems get tossed unless you took
The editor’s creative writing class.
I hate the way they dodge the sentimental;
By acting as if they’re totally above it
And think they only write what’s monumental,
As proved by fact that wives and students love it
But most of all I’ve really had enough
Of bastards who reject my precious stuff.