Our Parnassus will go on.

The great poets are always decisive.

When Sylvia Plath went for chicken wings,

she never had to think twice about whether

to order them Mild, Hot or Suicide.

When Edward ‘Ted’ Hughes would buy summer shorts,

he could hear the the hair on his legs touch

and the hairs would sing ‘MMMBop’ in Welsh.

Such are the legs of Legsy the Poet.

But hey, leg up when the editor lags:

‘We’re not looking for work but for content –

just a thing that frames pictures of Yaddo,

a thing that says, ‘I don’t rent tuxedos!’

When the great poets think upon the sun

they must surely think of Mr. Drummond,

dropping to one knee, outstretching his arms,

as if anything were possible with love.