You pour the words upon the page
And let them turn;
You bore the student and the sage.
Dry up, Swinburne!
Your gushing stanzas blot the land
And tread the fern;
They crush the readers into sand.
Enough, Swinburne!
I have waded through words like a heron,
Without even a frog to consume,
As your pages extend, flat and barren,
To fill every niche in the room,
And I ask, Why the pain? Why the wind burn
That buffets my eyes to their cores?
I've read more than I need of you, Swinburne,
Our Baron of Bores.
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