We heard the formalist recite his verse
in polyester pants. His voice was high,
his tepid lines unmusical and terse.
He wore a polyester clip-on tie
between thin arms with which he would affect
to hold his laboured opus as he bragged
of having studied under Tate and Hecht.
His bald head gleamed, his aging titties sagged.
In silence we all listened. And we looked
at this ambitious little vain castrato
and wondered whether we were being rooked
by one untouched by harp-strings from Erato,
although we knew it is no easy trick
to scribble fourteen lines without a dick.