When I was just another high school Schlemiel,
before I had any lines to schlepp,
I made an effort to complete my prep;
which savaged my immaturity
to disclose that the art of Poetry
(despite what Stupes thought it should be)
did not exist just for the delivery
of some attenuated summary
of how I happened to feel
on any given day. This truth was a slam
to my ego's fragile delicacy---
for which the world did not give one good damn.
Later, the explanation
for this rather harsh realization
came through the verse of J. V. Cunningham.
Starward