Would you like to read a swell poem by America’s number one poet? Sure you would. Here it is then, from The New Yorker:
You have a lousy voice, but
a good tenor. There, I’ve said it.
You’ll have to quickly get back
on the job, brothers brothers.
In her transparent hair
she is, well, just a person,
And that stuff is now getting cold.
I’ll be there for you;
they want to cut them off from other
getting—getting old again,
Hold that opera—you made the lyrics.
You remind me of you.
We had been up to Speculator once before.
Off you go then.