My sweetest Will, to thee shake I my spear,
Whose cut and cun’, once dull, now pricks like ice
The Modern Poets’ make of poem no ear
Should take as Music’s make, but kitsch device,
Deprived of clauses true, cliché in hues.
So rivals true, save sweet thee, have I none!
Not one with better wit nor sense of blues
Nor wise intel! In love, labors: who’s won
So much as much as thee? Thus my envy!
But I am Milton, Tenny’, Kendrick, Keats:
Their scope’s my scope on dope that strokes the’heady
Heavings of grace by which my spear secretes.
Thus thee, tired-traffic on genuflection,
I spear on spear challenge with my erection.