"Preludes drip from your pale slim fingers, Chopin, Do play once more that stirring polonaise. There, Liszt, do you not feel—you stupid moron— The fire it has? (To give the ass due praise.) Light me another cigarette, moi Frederic, And thrill us with your restless Waltz Caprice, (I should be busy writing books immortal Not wasting time on worthless fools like these.)" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A TIME TO DANCE by CECIL DAY LEWIS WHEN I RISE UP by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON WORDS INTO WORDS WON'T GO by CLARENCE MAJOR TO THE PEACOCK OF FRANCE by MARIANNE MOORE THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON YOUNG SAMMY'S FIRST WILD OATS by GEORGE SANTAYANA |