Making Fun Of Old Poets (Tell Hi Story Even When He Rolls His Eyes)

I've written I guess about 7000 Shakespearean sonnets; at around 100 words per, the total word count blew past War And Peace and is nibbling at the Bible's heels.

So I guess that makes me a poet, but I really cringe at the label, mainly because of what other posts did, and worse, looked like.

For example, to pick on someone who's long dead, consider Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and his opium-fueled "just what is this dude trying to say" poem Kublai Khan.

And the guy looked like a total dork, but I guess so did everyone in the early 19th century. 

And that, no doubt, is what they would say about me. But I do not use opium.

I drink beer.

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan

a stately pleasure dome decree,

but I style myself Marlboro Man;

a pleasure dome just ain't for me.

He built the thing right by a river;

Alph, of all things, was its name;

the Alien Life Form did deliver

beyond its too-long 80s fame,

but really, this poem's stupid stuff,

and Coleridge had a messed-up head.

He was a druggie, sure enough

and the narcotics killed him dead,

but I write fine, shove comes to push,

with an ice-cold can of Busch.

So there!

Sylvia, don't roll your eyes like that. They'll get stuck.

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