In the great tradition, of the Beowulf poet, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and Swift, and of course the Romantic period's Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley and Keats, the next great poet emerges.
I am pleased to publish Imitations of Intimations: An Ode to Romanticism by Kelsey Sullivan, class of 09,
Imitations of Intimations: An Ode to Romanticism
Romantics are a funny crowd,
They can’t make up their mind.
They think that they have been endowed
God’s powers o’er their kind.
They like outdoors, so fresh and clean,
Bright sun and plants so crazy
But that is only if you mean
It’s really dark and hazy.
They love technology, unless
That really means they don’t;
With sex and love they often mess
Unless, of course, they won’t.
Music is nice, they like the fact
That it can be undead
That is, unless they want to act
Perverse, and strong of head.
They have an obscure metaphor:
A mirror and a lamp.
When Doc Nighan drew it on the board
It gave our brains a cramp.
There are these four romantics,
Of which we had to learn
And all the things they did, antics
So to a living earn.
Wordsworth traveled ‘round the nation,
And wrote about a road,
He had no better inspiration
Our interest thus to goad.
My Heart Leaps Up was pretty good-
By “good” I mean confined-
A rainbow’s quite a sight to see
Unless, that is, you’re blind.
Dear Coleridge is a poster child
For one who’s had bad luck;
Got hooked on drugs, the bads compiled,
His life, it must have sucked.
With light and dark he liked to play,
And music was a must,
But did he hate when it was day,
And night he did not trust.
And Shelley, yes I mean the male,
Wrote crap about the breeze
He bantered ‘bout a nightingale
Peacock he did not please.
He wanted beauty all around,
And never e’er to end,
A shadow cast upon the ground,
It proved to be his friend.
He realized beauty had to cease;
In temporary realms.
But somehow seasons help him ease
The sad that overwhelms.
When talking ‘bout the wind he says
Words that I do not need:
He falls upon the thorns of life;
And (Who guessed it?) he bleeds!
Yes, Keats was weird; he had some thoughts
Pent up inside his head
His letters- was he grammar taught?
Though give him slack; he’s dead.
He wrote about a Grecian pot
With figures on the side,
They do not move, though crazy he
Considered them alive.
Don’t dwell in B, to us informs
This poet of the time.
If you must, then please conform
To worlds of the A prime.
The class does not know what this means,
But our mouths shut we keep,
Lest Dr. Nighan, on singing keen,
Belt out, “BAA BAA BLACK SHEEP”.
Romantics have their many flaws,
The reading makes me yawn.
But rest assured, don’t be in awe:
Thank God, they’re dead and gone!