Poetry's become a Whore

I am a Poet
can't you tell?
I'm better than you,
can't you see?
Poetry, she is mine
she belongs to me
not I to her.

I whore her out night by night.

I haven't shame,
I haven't a care for her finer lines
her definite features, no.
Oh, no.
I really couldn't care for her.
Nor her metaphoric posture
slouching so
to the extent her breasts have sagged
and her rear raised
eager for my pounding.

Her lines are better than yours
her lines more smooth.
No matter how I neglect her.
Still, she remains definite
Still, she remains Poetry.