As Strindberg hated Ibsen’s plays and strove
To set himself an equal opposite,
And Hellman sued McCarthy as she drove
Herself into the grave over the split,
Such passionate antipathy excites,
As legendary treasure does marauder,
And spurs an artist to undreamed of heights,
As Dostoevsky found Turgenev fodder.
But I can’t think of any sonneteers
Whose work makes my blood bubble with disdain.
And if I lack those necessary sneers,
Perhaps I should extol and not complain.
Perhaps my writing may elicit curses,
Inspiring someone else to better verses.