Many a time I’ve found myself at a complete loss
With a piece of prose labeled delectable and divine
Critics ooh and aah even as the writer weaves up a mystery
In a piece that is neither a whodunit nor a what’s-the-corpse-wearing
Nay, the convolutedness of the prose goes deeper than that
Its devious machinations are a plot unto themselves
The goal of its damning complexity seems merely to perplex
And belittle the reader perspiring his way to sophistication
Every twisted metaphor contrives meanings profound and obscure
Or it might not be a metaphor even, just delusions of authorship all along
A roaring lion in pink pyjamas set the fondue on fire on a nocturnal jaunt
See what I just did?
With a bit more finesse and bare-faced pretension
I could have passed that piece of twaddle as literature
Just like I toss aside meter and rhythm
And call this assortment of rambling raving rants
Poetry
Cogito Ergo Finito
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