This poem may contain
traces of irony,
a little Shelley,
no Keats, whatsoever,
and what beats a huge dollop of Byrony?
Or it may not.
It may be considered complete and utter rot –
by those in the know,
and connoisseurs of real poetry
might turn in their graves –
even if they are still alive and kicking,
leaving little or no room for sensible critiquing –
whatever that is.
