Tucked in a house
locked inside a room,
signing autographs
on editions of his book for
semi-illiterate daydreamers…
Opening a thin window he
pours out ice cold water
to drown the paparazzi
and the literaryluminaries
who demand to hob-nob
at the kitchen table!
What crud!
What flummery!
What doggerel!
Utterly weightless
guileless scribbles…
Analphabetic inanities
Anomic and Rascal brained!
Pure decultured paste
dead gene synapsis!
-Only I am the poet of high esteem!
Who do you think you are,
William Topaz McGonagall?