Ode to an Ode

O Ode, thou perfectest of all expression,

Thy words well-chosen and thy structure sound

Enable the most intimate confession

Of thoughts which otherwise would soon be drowned

Beneath the sea of fortune, still and black

Against whose shores my heart would run aground.

Thou ruminateth like the chewing yak

On any object which hast thou inspired—

An objet d’art or — ah — a fresh Big Mac.

And O, the truth and beauty thou hast sired

Would render wisdom to the lunatic. 

O Ode! O Form! O Poem most admired!

Yet still, for just a naughty little kick,

Thou matchest not the dirty limerick.