When I saw you there, just another poseur,
In that silly deconstructionist guise,
A study in literary haute couture,
I was hardly able to believe my eyes.
Could that be you, of whom the muse was so fond,
Affecting that ridiculous bluestocking pose,
Among the intellectual demimonde,
Helping to tailor the Emperor's clothes?
What happened? Did some critic fail to rave?
Well, no matter. Why not opt for security
And bury your talent in that shallow grave,
Pursuing the safe life in the Academy?
It's an easier life, in every respect,
Than any real poet could ever expect.
