CONFESSIONS OF A POETASTER
by John T. Baker
I daily curse
My sodden verse
For superficiality;
It seems to me
Deplorably
Besotted with banality.

The lines I write
Turn out so trite
And sound so sanctimonious
They seem to say
It's all okay
As long as it's euphonious.

I dare display
Each tired cliche
With dubious dexterity,
Then wonder how
To disavow
Such obvious temerity.

My sole excuse
For this abuse
Is just the possibility
That practice may
Perhaps one day
Afford me some facility.