Hey Keats, you bright star, come over
We'll wheelbarrow William Carlos Williams over
Grab a little Shakespeare by his black wires
And tease the Cummings out of Tennyson -
Hey, what's Donne is done,
Right?
We'll go to Atwood's where the door swings open
Welcoming the Hardy folk, where the mighty build and blend
After a Frosty winter they spend on the road less traveled by,
Pounding the liquor back, turning faces into apparitions
And I lose a Bishop at chess, but its loss is no disaster,
While Suzanne takes you down, your brawl Cohen-ciding
With the children's Carrolling hour; but 'twas brillig enough
That they didn't see you make a Dickinson of yourself
Or swear: "I shall but drink the more!"
Then we'll Thomas it into that good night
Tempt the Wordsworthy into that sweet bower
Then, Blake by Blake, turn innocence into experience...
Because hey, honey, love's red, red rose Burns
At every Marvellous pore with instant Fires,
And we'll Eliot it out while the evening is spread out against the sky.
So don't give me your Sassoon, soldier, we're sworn to action,
Even if our Wilde honey of romance
bring but little to no satisfaction.
