Call me a philistine.

I'd rather read a tabloid,
Than whatever Jane Austen wrote,
I'd rather watch big brother,
Than read an 18th century anecdote.

I'm an English student,
And I suppose it's really bad,
That I'm being asked to draw on empathy,
That I never had.

Blake should have painted,
Instead of putting quill to scroll.
Everything he says is boring,
Or just so stale and old.

Seriously, Keats, it's an urn
For crying out loud.
There's no one alive on the side of it,
No imaginary crowd.

Ok, Austen, is there anyone, just one
In the whole of Mansfield Park
Who doesn't have an agreeable countenance,
Or a woman who doesn't need a man in the dark.

Don't make me write another essay,
Please, I'll only cry.
One more poem about bloody daffodils,
And I'll just curl up and die.

I know, they're all classics, and as an English student,
I should absolutely adore them all.
But I'm sorry, I don't get their allure,
Or why they're so wonderful.

I appreciate that everyone's entitle to their own opinion.
And my own opinion is simple, it is only this.
Call me a philistine, call me whatever you like.
But it's all poetry for poetry's sake,
And frankly, it's taking the piss!