THE EGOTISTICAL SUBLIME
That duff Tory, Mr Wordsworth, with his women waiting,
and the hills too, for all I know,
traipsed these empty horizons covetously;
but while the POET was in Germany
De Quincey and Coleridge squatted in his cottage
his meagre thread of dreams.
And you never forgave them, did you, Mr Wordsworth?
Nursing your resentment like a baby
as you searched, and searched again, for that space
that separates you from the hoi polloi, humanity.
Keep the riff-raff out! Stop the trains!
The city will do for the likes of seditious William Blake,
as you, Mr Wordsworth, grip your five-bar gate
and compose yourself, yet again.