Broken Metaphors

A tragic event can only be defined tragedy
If the wallets of your publishers are willing
Enough to spread the "good word" of loss
Into every newsstand that a joe passes by

But I must laugh at your broken metaphors
Of destitution and lustful lives thrown aside
Because not once has Mr. Frost invited me
To the woods on a dark and snowy evening

And Mr. Eliot's close friend, J. Alfred Prufrock
Has bored me with his know-nothing style
Of baldness and shallow insights of my own
Fragile egotistical lifestyle that I indulge in

And even though I've never been to prison
Mr. Hikmet would publish his letters of love
From deep within his cell, as if his one way
Road is unable to fork off into lush nothing

I call it unfortunate that I do not hunger for
Anything except my own sense of a home
Which when looking at Mr. Larkin seems
Almost ignorant and rude to say the least

I am fed well with my hecto-pronged forks
That dig deep into the oven-roasted meal
That I share with Ms. Plath, as we discuss
The father-topics of life and fair mentality

For when the day arrives that I exchange
The purple pills for the slender silver axe
I will hold my sides with blood and laughter
As the poetic meaning of it all disappears