Old Poets

Old poets though once thought modern, hear my cry!
You offered a cold one and asked if I would lie
To them and in bed when I stopped to read your verse.
Your graves are picked on your "freedom" fighter’s search.
Old poets though once thought modern, hear my cry!
Why not follow Robert’s narrow path in the woods and defy
Your cradle within Eliot’s Wastelands, raised and made,
But never raised from the inherited heap and life’s shade.

Old poets though once thought modern, hear my cry!
Your dream of heaven and nirvana when you die
Is amiss, the two differ, like you and me.
You make me sad to the point of death, nearly.