My Own Private Ulysses: On James Joyce. 2024
On James Joyce. 2024
What needs James Joyce for these reheated clones,
The belabored rhymes and cold homophones,
Or, that his name and fame should be undid
By self-appointing who crave to forbid?
Master of the modern, breaker of frame,
What needs you such poor players of your game?
That in their blunder and befuddlement,
Your immortality you did cement.
For wile, I push my dainty dessert cart,
Your minced riddles humble every pie chart.
Do they believe your art’s gobbledygook,
The most impressive feast ever to cook?
They taste then lie, when as this they should try,
Compliment the chef, as did Satan’s guy.
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