Edgar Guest

If I were as prolific
As Edgar Guest,
I might not be able
To do my best;
I might provoke ire
In Dorothy Parker,
As well as draw fire
From quarters still darker:
Such howlers as Ginsberg
Or Bukowski's barflies,
Downmarket ollaves
And piss-in-a-jar guys
Who won't brook no smug
Norman Rockwell snottage
Or the slick preciousness
Of a Kinkade cottage.
I'd betray the forefronters
Of honest words
If I gave into peddling
Sententious turds
For the glory of selling,
Or equally rotten,
For shooting-star fame,
After which one's forgotten.