Ted Hughes, you are a writer in a billion,
Although in truth you’ll never make a poet,
Not if you live to be a hundred million,
The doggerel you write just goes to show it.
I doubt you’ve ever penned a limerick,
You’ve not the talent to compose a sonnet,
Your verse is so turgid it makes me sick,
You’ve obviously a bee in your bonnet.
The only piece of yours I like is Thistles,
(And even then you couldn’t make it rhyme);
Some of your work has been likened to missiles,
“A thunderbolt!” said one, or just “Sublime”.
The simple truth though is your critics pose:
It’s Ted Hughes and the Emperor’s new clothes.
January 2, 1985
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