All that one does is stuff in more
purple words relentlessly.
He’s hounded by Necessity,
it seems. Kindlier Nature culled,
he plies his vigorous Pen; is pulled
to slap his parts on the Page so fast
you’d think his Time and not his Whore
had come - if she did. I’d cast
some doubt on that; our Peer is more
concerned with loucher takes on Lust.
Ah well, it happens when Love’s gone bust.
Admire the Poet? His work is slick,
but, basically, the man’s a Prick.
