Fishing In A Dull Canal On A Winter Evening Round Behind The Gashouse. Where They Toss The Tripe

Your bent fishook is baitless, though you are a master baiter.

Better to face the sad truth now, and now is not sooner but later.

I understand, believe me I do, your shaken perturbation.
You cannot conceive of a love that suffered far too long unspoken;

and now that such love is declared---metaphors---and silence broken,

you deem and despise it as perverse in your vulgar speech's vulgate---

its loveliness is not admitted to your closed mind's dull gate.

Such love was declared by Vergil, never read in your edgy-cation;
praised Horace's poems---longer than bronze or pyramids,

far longer than your attenuated lines' impotent bids

for attention.  But even these ancient poems cannot take you aback;

Neanderthal, you are not disturbed by the knowledge you sadly lack.


Now help yourself to the butter, and smear a gob on your tater.




Your sort deems Ganymede just a satellite--refute me

if you can---and not the Trojan boy of such exquisite beauty.






Author's Notes/Comments: 

The first phrase of the title is taken from T. S. Eliot's poem, The Waste Land, III


The poem alludes to Vergil's Eclogues, and to Horace's Odes, 3.30.

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