He says he is a perfect poet
He lives alone, with his perfect mate
& sometimes they don't even speak
So perfectly do they 'communicate.'

He lives alone, his greatest pleasures are
His pipes, his books, his wife's behind-
Which he will often pinch to hear her laugh;
He's got a perfect love for womankind

He seldom writes, distrusting language as
A clumsy tool, unequal to his thoughts:
He uses it as rarely as he can
(No doubt to punish it for all its faults)

But when he writes, he keeps the upper hand
(On principle, since words are enemies)
He melts them down, then counterfeits his own-
A kind of literary alchemy

He's fortunate to have a perfect muse
A live-in muse, who cooks inspiringly;
And sometimes after an ambrosial meal
He'll grab his pen, composing feverishly

A perfect poem, describing in detail
The salad, wine, the roast in buttery baste
And reading it, his musing wife agrees
That every line smacks of his perfect taste