Of Pope and his couplets:

“Fitting, for a man of his stature.”

and yet he wrote not in the fleeting half-aborted stiches
favoured by those now touched by blind Poesy’s bankrupt hand
which echo on the page like a stone cast down a steel-walled well

no he wrote instead in a cadence fit for Kings and Gods
and what’s more his Rape was seven-hundred and ninety-four lines long

(trust me i’ve counted)

but fearing the cruel irony of Cassandra’s curse
he dressed his Prophecies in the habits of the mundane
just as the would-be bards of today
dress the mundane in the garb of prophecy

(denude me of these puffed-up lines
and there’d be nary a mote left)

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