Over and over, naturally, we say
The same damn things. Obsessively, we fiddle
With details of expression, with the way
That things are said. We glory in the riddle
That pitches obvious as near inspired.
In clever words, we make the old connection.
If we fail here, the reader says we’re fired.
But is such polish actual perfection?
I much prefer what I myself can’t do,
What Blake achieved in poetry prophetic.
Believe you me, I give myself the cue—
But my performance strikes me as pathetic.
What I produce will not survive my time.
But, what the hell, I sure know how to rhyme!