It seems the latest fashion is
to write a poem
that doesn't rhyme
and talk about a safety pin,
or a pink beach ball,
or a pint of gin
and the flavour of the day is trite,
banality without respite
and people are just not the pace
and lyric odes
are out of place.
So don't you try to be too deep
the publishers will fall sleep
and secret'ries will type the slip
that tell you that your poems aren't hip
and thus they're banished to a drawer
they'll not be thought of anymore.
But did you ever write a poem
of barmen pulling beers with foam?
And did you ever go to bed
with poems of blackmail in your head?
And was it just a far-flung phase
that made you lose your turn of phrase
that made you put away your pen
and swear you'd never write again?
And did you ever think it wise
to fool them all
with clever lies
and scribble words that they would print,
with subtle shades and azure tint
and not allude to Hesse or Blake?
For these days Art is on the take.
So never mention acid once
since all dope friends are puny runts,
they want good news
or none at all
so write them poems of Hooker's Balls.
A touch of smut, a line that leads
a fez of blue, a string of beads,
a plumpish fishnet-stockinged thigh
or garish make up on one eye.
Don't give them cerebral delight
they'll only tear the page in fright,
so make them laugh
or make them cry,
but never tell them they might die.
Cliches, toupees are the thing
so write them verse that's full of swing
so give them lines to blue beach balls
and forget the Aussie dollar falls.
You've gotta join the crowd and sing
a ten verse song on safety pins.
You've gotta write the stuff that's in
and rhyme and reason aren't the thing
that keep the public on a string.
So, if you must, then write an ode
about a house of ill-abode
and do not look too hard to find
the meaning in a ball of twine
and write a poem that doesn't rhyme
don't show you've too much on your mind.
