Dross

They are middling poems at best,
wrought limp from out a lukewarm breast
and stagnant as an old morass;
shat out an incontinent ass.
Yet, fancy that! Such great acclaim
from the middling likewise who shame
the word “poetry” with such tripe
that stinks as eggs so overripe.
Is this satire? Is this a joke
that pours rank from the runny yoke?
Seedling ground has never been so
that people praise what does not grow,
nor such eggs spoiled in so much haste
that shelf-life reads “yesterday’s waste”.
And who are these who think it cream
from this gutter-sputtering stream?
A festival of fools, it seems,
drunk on social media memes
whose attention span fails so soon
that their minds flash like a cartoon,
permitting no true depth of thought
or meditation, just the rot
of dregs and dross and hogwash stuff
for which pretenses are enough—
moonbeams gleaming thin and pallid
like oil soaking a word salad.

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