The poet’s dead, have you not heard?
Strangled by the pulsating mobs,
And ring-fenced in a crate of thought
Where hate is air, and no truth throbs.

Did you hear that great, final cry
That bellowed as the breath of art?
Before the icicles of fear
Drove right into an open heart.

Will anyone now moan or wail
In keen adversarial verse?
For fifty six inches of pride
Will spring upon them with a curse.

Quiet is good, and meek is right,
Don’t dare to ask what has gone wrong.
Poetry must not probe or pry,
No powers brook a sinful song.

The poet’s dead, have you not heard?
And now they must rot, speak in hell.
But given those who lead on earth,
What difference can a poet tell?