MODERN POETRY

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I read a so-called poem the other day:
I knew it was modern
Because it had nothing to say.
Nor did it scan or make sense;

It was bad prose,
Chopped into arbitrary rows
Of ugly inconsequential lines,
Without rhyme
Nor reason, nor plan
Nor anything I could understand:

A perversion of reality,
An assault on humanity,
A self-indulgent pretence.

But where are the real poets who,
Brimming with inspiration,
Could uplift the nation,
Just as the giants of yesteryear
Used to do?

They are swept aside or crushed
By the all-pervading mush,
Propagated by the sad and sorry souls,
Who now hold sway;

Deluded by their own stupidity,
They arrogantly inflict their gloomy instability
On all the rest
Of us;

And if Tennyson were writing his noble poems today,
These people would say:
"He is cra-
zy."

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