Pathetic Poet's Lament

Those poets of the past,with odes already written.
They've used up all the romantic stuff,with poems to lovers smitten.
They've left bugger all to wax about,yet alone get lyrical.
So noble were those sonnets then.. and they were empirical!

Lonely days, lonely nights,roses red as red.
Bawdy ballads of lusty lovers leaping from bed to bed.
Meadows,skies,starry nights. They all been done to death.
God!..I've read a poem 'bout a lover with bad breath!

I've racked my brains,thought hard and long,for a subject new.
Methinks I would have better luck quenching thirst with midday dew.
I hate those ancient poets, Burns and Keats and Shelley!
Every time I hear of them... It turns my feets to jelly!

What is left to poem about,that's mystic and profound?
Sweet F.A. are the only words that in my head go round.
Bastards, bastards bastards. They left the mundane shite.
Left me to wallow in the mire, 'cos they penned to dizzying height.

Even last years poets took subjects from my list.
Stupid poems 'bout stupid virgins pining to be kissed.
I hate all you prior poets who've written odes and prose.
Pick another subject. Not one that I'd have chose!

I've got one poem on the go, about the big bang theory.
It's only got three lines so far.It's almost finished..nearly.
Those three lines encompass the future,present and past.
At least no other poet has tackled a subject so vast.

Very soon I'll finish it. There's one more line to come,
and to all you future poets I'll say "Stick it up your bum!"
One more subject bites the dust.A little bit harder for you.
I'm now a poet of your past, so "Nah nah nanny noo!"