From a Hack to the Poet-Laureate of the Blogosphere
Despite my now-apparent lack of skill
And always ever-present distance from
What this group here considers perfect form,
You're, Silliman, the bane of my existence.
Not only do I have to sweat and toil
Over your convoluted essays in
My classes, you, a published poet must
Engage in competition with the common masses.
I am not printed, true, have not a name,
Composing maybe one good poem out of eight
But for your activism and your postmodern
Tripe, for you I've nothing in my mind but hate.
Feel free to tell me how I'm wrong and me
Now flame; I've had it up to here now with this silly game.