Mr. Keats and Mr. Shelley
Compose the underbelly
Of modern poetry
They speak again in Yeats
Who looked like Blake
And swore like Baudelaire
Who kept the flame alive
Even as it consumed him
I imagine the poets on earth
Meeting up annually with those
Who go on writing them in heaven
Where they all get drunk together
Taxied home by their angels
Muttering their dreams
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