For my British-literature students, currently reading the Romantics
Wordsworth is too much with us late and soon;
reading and reading, we waste our hours,
missing out on nature with its flowers.
To his odes, we’ve sacrificed our youth.
All these words that, stacked, would reach the moon,
the pages we’ll be turning at all hours;
assaulting us with iambs while we cower,
into bed he makes us want to swoon.
He excites us–not! I’d rather, dude,
be one of those Philistines that I dis,
so might I quit reading his endless Prelude
and sink into my comfy bed so soothing,
or drink some beers while I watch Netflix.
T. Allen Culpepper