Ferlinghetti and Kerouac
Are Queer for Burroughs’ Naked snack.
Ginsberg’s Howlin’ gandy dancer
Rides the rails of Miller’s Cancer.
The cowpat poems these Brahmins pass
Top-dress the Leaves of Whitman’s Grass!
Without a doubt such wordsmiths wreak
The free verse pose of pure mystique.
Of poetry that’s beat or blank
Composed on either Paris bank,
Most anything but form will pay
The rent to write another day.
But formal rhymes of reverie
Are tattooed into memory,
To bless all thoughts, to damn all deeds.
Bards ought to give us more than weeds.
