Sonnet 83

A thankless task. You churn them singly out.
They’re ordered chronologic’ly. And when
someone asks idly what they’re all about,
you can’t avow a single theme. But then
you add as afterthought, “I like being arch”—
you’d think wit travels on iambic wheels.
Alas, the modern earnestness has parched
the taste: writing’s now therapy, and feels
like masquerade; the pose as basket case.
They’ve cast down Ariel, and Caliban
shat out some chopped up prose with wit effaced,
devoid of rhyme, and no attempt to scan.
He means it, though. You mustn’t rush to judge
his putrid poetasting playschool fudge.