T. S. Eliot Blows His Snoot into His Upper Crust Cambric Handkerchief and This Is High Culture

The fake and unthought thought of High Brows, dead

Undead the “thinking” of their mindless minds,

Who “think” that prose tricked out can be a shred

Of poetry—this proves they’ve shut the blinds.

They hunker down inside their bunkers made

By Modernism long ago, so long

Ago that it is now tradition staid

As eighteenth-century lines, both dead and wrong.

No metaphors in dribbled lists prove brains

Have atrophied and can no longer see

True poetry, especially if stains

Of rhyme are in it.  These twats hate unfree.

  An Eliot crammed up with learning, not

    With normal heaps of metaphors, is snot.

~ Phillip Whidden