The Poet Steve Olive
The poet Steve Olive
Was not a supporter
Of postmodern poems.
With all eighteen volumes
Of his published knowledge
He'd eat all sorts olives;
He'd buy antique novels.
The poet Steve Olive
Could not quite abide by
All ego-based nonsense.
He'd talk straight to conscience,
And sew woolen scrotums;
He'd build wooden totems
To praise Aristotle.
The poet Steve Olive
Would look at your poems;
He'd do you a favour:
You would sign a waiver;
He'd find you discursive.
He'd tell you to shape up
And keep off the bottle.
The poet Steve Olive
Eschews the symbolic.
He'd talk to you breathless.
He'd tell you what's bollocks.
He knows of obstetrics.
He'd push on the throttle
And teach you poetics.
The poet Steve Olive
Would often dishonour
All verbal impostors:
The stylistic rosters,
Of I-speaking lobsters,
Undisciplined, sponsored
Post-structur'list monsters.
The poet Steve Olive
Is guided by muses
(And Oliver Cromwell.
He's glowing all over.
You won't get your closure.
He'll wish you good day with
His righteous composure.