Sonnet

The Modern writer is such a fool 
Who writes his bathos, oh so ever cruel; 
He speaks a word of ill advisal: 
He gives great poets steep reprisal. 
He does not respect the solemn day, 
And decrees the "Vortex", only this age 
Will please him, its words like sticks and stones--- 
A primitive monkey building with chicken bones. 
So I say this, to you a wayward, tool: 
The great poet speaks in their hidden runes 
Which alites a secret riddle of odes 
Mulled and walked over a lifetime's road. 
"The prize goes to the poet who's foul 
"It goes to one whose verse, is that a sow's." 
So corrupt engines do alight this day 
To take a laureate and make him vain.