I waded back into the cesspool. Why? I paddled among
The workshop poets, choking on effluent, looking back at
Their cesspool's perpetually empty shore. "No one is here.
They've been driven away by the stench of your versions
Of our shared art. For its sake and mine, won't you plug
Every orifice out which what you've been making escapes?
Take up accounting or shampooing pets, anything which
Stops the streams you excrete, allowing these waters to clear."