by Dweebler A. Cramden

I plan to mourn man’s
neglect of truth and beauty
in a thoroughly boring elegy,
hoping to excite interest,
thinking, in my solipsistic way,
others should love what I love,
like Jerry Lewis and anchovy pizzas.

Then I plan to sell
unfinished poems by industry giants
with a dozen end-scenarios
on scratch-off lottery tickets.
Credit will be provided.
If someone can’t make their marker
I’ll send Milton and Wordsworth out
to bludgeon them with blank verse
until their brains do the goose-step.

Don’t miss my seminar, “Poetry in Sports,”
where pitchers learn that a sonnet
taped inside the glove
concentrates the mind better than chewing tobacco,
where sportscasters practice allusions
as in “Like Lord Jim, the quarterback
must take his punishment to be redeemed,
however questionable his past failures.”

I won’t stop until Professors wear threadbare tweeds
not for style but from necessity.
For practice now, let’s lay odds
on this being published.