Damn you, Thomas Eliot!
Why did you have to be a bigot?
Someday they’ll say, “Who? I forgot!”
At first it seemed a forgivable blot,
A line here and there, not a lot,
A silver string with a nasty knot.
Now it reads like an aneurism, a clot,
A stroke, or babble of a bibulous sot,
Unredeemable, no innocent mot,
But the crisis of your poetry’s plot.
Then you wrote the Four Quartets.
Your hate may be forgiven yet.
