Paradise Apprehended

Mayhap in youth thou wast obliged to read,
For reason unbeknownst or unreveal’d
Or e’en set forth though not well understood,
A poem, like the world, devoid of end;
And somewhat sparsely stocked with full-stops, too,
Though forc’d full as a feather’d Christmas goose
With sub-clauses, enbracketed asides,
Diversions in parentheses unseen
And colons scatter’d: broadcast, as might be
From out the hand of God like silver’d stars
Thrown careless ’pon the darkling firmament
In multitudes to mortal mind confound:
Which – and here we’re harking back to ‘poem’ –
Was billed in the curriculum or notes
As perhaps the greatest blank-verse epic work
In English; or in any other tongue:
And ploughing through it, line by turgid line,
As one compelled to eat a sheepskin rug,
Thou mayst have wondered what the bloody hell
Could be the gain, of knowledge, or of joy,
Despite whate’er grades thou wouldst achieve
To rise to high Academe.

Fair point.
In truth, the lumpen tone of Paradise
Lost is such a product of its time
That it’s of int’rest only to those few
To whom Milton is Hist’ry (not High Art!)
As ‘twere a mammoth cold-preserv’d in ice.
On top of that, the poem’s moral stance
And theologick thrust are obsolete.
Age of Reason, my spare freaking rib.
E’en as metaphor it’s pretty lame.
Were style and content not enough to zonk
Thee off to sleep as might a hand-cupped draught
Of Lethe’s flow or poppy’s Orient sap,
Then John’s insistent soporific iambs
Thumping like a party down the hall
Will spirit dull and senses all benumb.
Ti-dum ti-dum ti-dum ti-bloody-dum.

That was hilarious!