Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

John Clare wasn't fair,
he of the dark snake-like hair,
and the cold quarry stare.
He bears ill-will in his chill
that would put you in your place.
He was hired as a mean face
to make your poem grist in his mill.
John Clare saw nothing good\
in what you wrote and quoted.
Everything wrong. Wrong key for the song.
A bear that John Clare. I'd wrestle the bastard,
throw custard in his pudding face,
but then I would be adolescent.
What a mess. Can't refute his stance,
or that Medusa-like glance,
because it is name-calling
and a different reading, different breeding.
I'm a mild man unless you take my hand
and twist, trying to break the wrist.
An elbow in the schozz would send
the evil wizard and his gizzard back to Oz
and the land of the green meanies
and their bibliotech scene.
John Clare is not so rare,
an authority self-made, on the tear.
He wears motley clothes and Portuguese shoes,
sings a sort of Russian vodka-sotted blues.
He is a man of right renown,
especially the haunting frown.
John Clare, how dare you
be a boll weevil and evil critic,
and then run out the door,
or won't let me in to defend
my honor, pride and fierce wit.
You, John Clare, are a twit.

a twit.
The kind of person that makes a retarded chimp look smart. They often can be found leaving definitions for their own name or the names of their friends on urbandictionary.com

now that's a rollicking good poem...whatta ya say we get drunk one night danno and sing it from the roof...

saw, sounds good.