I Keatsly woke with a Shelley chill
In an actually very Tennyson morning
Surprising that my phallus had Byronly erected
And I even felt a Ginsberg beating in it
Like a tale-tell heart Poefully exposed
My most villain Verlaine dreams
But it was still an Elliot weekday
I had to shave my e. e. comings chin
To wear my Wordsworth suit, Plath black shoes
And grab my Dickinson cold sandwich
To catch the Cantos-crowed Metro
With pavement-Pounded feet.
After I felt like my lock was raped
By a Pope-like boss
I struggled to retrieve some Tagore stray documents
In all the thirteen Stevens’ ways
To pacify a shake-spear client in the fiction department
Of such an Orwellian company
Till the Kiplingesque lunch time came
though short as haiku and jueju
I walked into the Whitmanesque grass-plot
Between the Miltonic and Emersonian office buildings
Just to count how many of my crimson joys
Which was so Blake, spared by beetles yesterday
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