the english major

 

the english major

Found myself outside her window,
chanting free verse and rhyme
and lyrics and sonnets and
dramatic monologues and
iambic pentameters and
victorian preraphaelite
ramble and bamble
and anglo-saxon
sloppy dribble.
She awoke,
at once,
dazed
and
dozing,
unlatched
the windows
and said to me
"Your verse reaks
to hard hell, i'd heard
better rhyme from a sea
monkey, your lyrics aren't
fit for a strumpet's bard, and
many years from now scholars
abound shall die from laughter at
your ridiculous sonnetry, mediocre
dramaticism, unpracticed iambictricity,
and pretended expertise of romanticism.
Darling, compared to your obvious intellect,
Grendel seems an Einstein; your unpracticed
words and wit have won no bed with me tonight
. . . Good Night." No matter, i think to myself, the
moon on my back, i'll be back tomorrow, to try my
hand at impressionism, modernism, and American lit.