They fuck you up, those classics past
In leather volumes bound to last,
They fill you with anxiety
Or dreams of notoriety.
But they were ignored in their time
By publishers who couldn’t sense rhyme,
Who took one look and turned away
Or lost it in their filing tray.
Old poets pass pessimism onto young
It heightens like a paper pile of dung,
Stop writing as early as you can
And don’t publish any works yourself.