Lack Of W;t

And so we begin at the school Taree High,
A story of sibilance, a tale of half-rhyme.
Differing opinions on life, death and wit,
With poor prepositions to help bolster it.
Essays on poets, an uncertain dish;
A rage-blinded shark for each barrel of fish.
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Breezing through Chaucer while Atwood's a slog.
Stoppard's view is unemotional, clear:
Death is simply an actor failing to reappear.
Though there's pessimist poets on life after death;
Who cry from their pens in between grief-wracked breaths.
People like Plath, though she has many fans,
She sounds like a goth who no-one gets, man.
And perhaps that's the end, her view with no lesser...
Or perhaps that just means that I've gone daft with Slessor.

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