The End

[Achebe]

Eliot stands out, because he lived and died
in an undiscerning age, less so than Will's,
which words and entire lexicons midwived,
yet still a time when shop work paid the bills
through nine to fives, and Sundays robbed of sport.
A closed club of the empire's men, who'd write
some flashy long legged nymph or two to court,
their readership assured. Unequal fight
between that age and this, when every hack
can fire into the internet his verse,
and catch the modern masters in his flak.
So heap abuse on that bad boffin, curse
Tim Berners Lee, whose hyperlinks have doomed
poets in the internet entombed.