Sailing to Pissantium

With apologies to W. B. Yeats (1865–1939)

This is no timeshare for cold fish!

An agèd poet's but a meager dish,

a folder of poor verses, if you wish,

whose author loves your work—but praising must confess

while talking up your talent, nonetheless,

they'd like another chance to second-guess.

There is no school for poetry but life,

which has its moments, though it's mostly strife,

so I have sailed the seven skies and come

to the great Republic of Pissantium

where blatant frauds adorn the pissant walls

and no good art—well, nothing really bad! befalls.

From chicken factories and plastic-shrouded seas,

fish, flesh, or fowl's consumèd all day long.

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies,

whether you want them or not, is served with fries.

Perched upon an arch to serenade

the guys and gals of great Pissantium

with what is past, passing, yet to come

though they be homeless, on the bum,

we keep the boozy plutocrats awake,

and cheer the little couple on the cake.

Note: Just as Buzántion (Latin Byzantium, subsequently Constantinople/Istanbul) is the Greek diminutive of Búzas, the name of the original Megaran colony there, linguists point out, Pissántion (Latin Pissantium) is clearly the diminutive form of Pissant.