Pwned, you MFA-toting losers!

I knew plenty of poets in grad school, lost souls who briefly believed that a rigorous, professional training in being a poet would somehow translate into something more than a return to menial labor. Those fiction writers, now they were classy, but undoubtedly their poet brethren have slunk back to being dishwashers, plumbers, and low-end prostitutes scrounging change to procure the cheap gin they lean on in lieu of talent.

I, on the other hand, have achieved, through sheer lack of will and casual dilettantism, the status of Award Winning Poet. From when Jeeves brought in my afternoon e-mail:

For a nominal fee of only $75(+s&h) to join the International Society of Poets (being an Award Winning Poet means it's sixty clams cheaper for me than those other chump poets), they'll send me a maple - maple! - mounted plaque of recognition for my achievement, and maybe a nice volume featuring myself and other Award Winning Poets. How many of you have received the Editor's Choice Award from the venerable ISP? Mm hmm?

So what epic work of art have I unleashed upon the literary world, destined to launch one thousand dissertations and cast an enormous shadow over contemporary American, nay, world poetry? Why these seventeen simple syllables:

Cherry Blossoms are
Often responsible for
Red and teary eyes.

Read it and weep. See you in the Norton Anthology, suckers!