She ain’t won no prizes yet

The academics scoff at sonnets,
She’d tried for a prize but she ain’t won it.
So now she’s trying to overcome it.
Sitting with a bowl in which to vomit
Her distaste for free and formless verse
Which has allusions, often terse.
To Greek  sun gods and Latin lovers
Around whose heads an owl  often hovers;
She wants to write
something which a professor
of creative writing or even
more acceptable
a professor of English literature and post modernism
would praise and recommend her
so that she’d make a lot of dough
and be able to convert her garden shed
into a real room with a light and a desk
She’d need a heater too,maybe a vest.
I mean like those we wore at school,
made by Chilprufe as a rule
Though I am unsure if chilprufe still exist
and anyway her lover prefers satin and silk
Underneath the flowered quilt.
Still she could change if she had blinds and curtains
on the shed windows.
and if she never let her lover into the shed…
Because there’s no room in there for a bed
And there are mice,though some are dead
Because they had the pest controllers in..
They even disinfect the bin.
Anyway,what I believe is,she wants to do whatever is the
most financially rewarding, fame making, glamorous kind of writing
I’d say give up poetry and go in for Advertising.
Because the Muse never comes to those who long
to be more famous than their song..
Or if she does there is a price…
Sylvia Plath has paid it twice