Poetry

If you’re perplexed by poetry,
Then you should really know:
Artistic meaning is something
Only you can bestow.
If E.E. Cumming’s an illiterate fool,
Or Sonnet 18 is a farce,
Then this is something that must be true,
To you, albeit quite harsh.
If the Tate can have art that’s a urinal,
Or a gigantic crack in the floor,
Then why can’t a poem be spelled slightly wrong?
If there’s a reason that it is there for.
As long as you have an opinion
Then you’ll never be incorrect,
Because apathy’s the worst thing
That anybody could expect.
So don’t be scared of Keats’ beats,
Or Milton’s Paradise Lost,
Don’t fear the wrath of Sylvia Plath,
And for fuck's sake don’t think it has to rhyme.

Shockingly bumpy, I know, but I'd like to think the sentiment defeats any criticism it might face. Woop woop! Critical immunity!