can't make me not a fan

[joel]

My little farce of antipoetry—
addressed and unrepentant to the whims
of hungry thought, philosophy and rant—
contains such ironies of loveliness:
I can’t contain my verses. Woe is me—
who woefully attempts to be it bare,
who censors ugliness in thoughts received,
who thoughts imparts unceasingly— believed
perhaps, but more poetic than I dare
perhaps myself admit. I’m wise and free
and beautiful—and I can write no less—
and I don’t want to be this; and I can’t
be just another poet charting hymns
to me and you and thoughtful dignity.