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.