Poetry is dead/ Like poets/ Who explored the flowers/ And
the birds/ And the glasses/ Full of scotch/ And whisky/ And the beers/ And the
sobs of babies/ And full grown men/ And the terrors of war/ And the throes of
ecstasy/ And afterlife/ And the howls/ And the ghosts that howled/ And love/
And lovers/ And mistresses/ And muses/ And trembling/ Whether in fear/ Or in
lust/ Or in anger/ Or in utter exhaustion/ And the lengthening days/ And
relentless nights/ And skittering field mice/ And watchful owls/ And the moon/
And the stars/ And the sun/ And the universe/ And God.