There is a world
Where Emily Dickinson stops
for every carriage,
And Robert Frost takes
Every road most traveled.
Where Wordsworth‘s inward eye
Remains forever closed,
Knowing Walden Pond
Is but a puddle.
A world where
La traviata is just
A cheap hotel,
And Verdi but a
Wino’s nightcap.
You see,
It’s a not so
Wonderful world
Where herds are going.
A world without
Splendor in the grass.
A world with always
Much Ado about
Something.