Oh I'm sure they'd say it's complexly ironised.
Bah, I can rustle one up in 5. Let's see.
What plainsung clue, plumage claim, unguligrade walks?
Avec plumes of salt and gall? And if pungent blame,
what, pluming plays your game, and gleams? Such – gloom around:
there is a grail beneath us, half of what we might
have wanted – she must have thought herself a writer
of getting talent – and – I had no wish, agree,
to deny her • I am a prodigy of this.
Singular clones, brown your pelves; good to a scarcely
credible extent + counting (without pelfs 'nof couse).
I have such trendy taste! Applaud me, love-governors,
plausive givers, bundles of gain, cream & flattened thunder!
Where's the weighing pad? Why is my sadness utter?
No: for I am fat with you, this couldn't count as light
(or shouldn't be made to). And loss is what – to have –
you have to give • right?