On reading a book of highly Praised poems, full of every day Scenes from a best-selling poet’s life;

We soon know that he has a dog, Spends evenings listening to jazz In smoky night clubs, and days gazing

At his kitchen garden, as paper spools In an antique typewriter, waiting for him To knock back a few new ones

For the next book, or for some Literary magazine or the other That hardly anyone reads.

And as we come to the book’s end, Forgetting everything that came Before: the commonplace, the banal

Was apparently somehow heightened In speech by chopping it up into verse, We read this note on the type:

“The larger display sizes are Extremely elegant, and form A most distinguished series Of inscriptional letters.”