To Certain Poets

Now is the rhymer's honest trade      A thing for scornful laughter made.      The merchant's sneer, the clerk's disdain,      These are the burden of our pain.      Because of you did this befall,      You brought this shame upon us all.      You little poets mincing there      With women's hearts and women's hair!      How sick Dan Chaucer's ghost must be      To hear you lisp of "Poesie"!      A heavy-handed blow, I think,      Would make your veins drip scented ink.      You strut and smirk your little while      So mildly, delicately vile!      Your tiny voices mock God's wrath,      You snails that crawl along His path!      Why, what has God or man to do      With wet, amorphous things like you?      This thing alone you have achieved:      Because of you, it is believed      That all who earn their bread by rhyme      Are like yourselves, exuding slime.      Oh, cease to write, for very shame,      Ere all men spit upon our name!      Take up your needles, drop your pen,      And leave the poet's craft to men!