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For Michael

It’s a writer

who will always have

detractors,

those who scorn

no matter the

masterpiece—


Alexandre Dumas

christened Alexander

Dumbass by his critics,


his trio of

Musketeers:

a chocolate bar

so light it never

fills, a barb

which would have

stung him had

confectioners

made it sooner;


Dickens

Charlie Dickhead,


a Twisted

Oliver

a flaccid type of

drink

with curdled milk,

guffaws behind his

back

whenever he strode

into the bar, fresh

manuscript in hand,

a feathered

quill and ink

within his pockets;


Stephen King

called Stilted Thing


that hung around in

sewers, that Shit was

apropos, another

pound-foolish

clown

to terrorize,


and think of Virgil

labelled Virgin,


his Aeneus

but an anus

to his peers,

those who

surely knew

they’d never

top him, could only

leave ‘em laughing

with critiques,

so cutting

that even to this day,


his bust will drop a tear

when no one’s looking ,

in the mind of

a poetaster,

which rhymes with

a disaster,

at least that’s what

you told me

when I asked for

your opinion,

about some poem

even worse

than this.




Andreas Gripp

November 2, 2023

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