I have the horn-rimmed glasses yes
Still not necktie or pocket square
I’ve never yet given a reading
But still I call these poor things poems

Cigarettes I renounced some years ago
Strong drink and wild carousal
I cannot write upon occasion
But still I call these poor things poems

These paltry slight improvisations
With their iambickish pentametroid
And rude effenticacious coinage
But still I call these poohaws poems

It doesn’t matter what I call them
Or that they languish here unread
As close to bliss as life provideth
As close to life when I am dead