The Ballad of Rod McKuen

Poor Rod McKuen, skewered for his words
Too sweet, too pretty, too damn much love
Nothing any real poet could be proud of

Wrote as a common man, appreciated by the common 
People       
The elite of the poetry world hated his success
He was too California mellow with his head in a cloud
An overly sentimental balladeer who had never been 
Oppressed          


His appeal they said was limited to those who fell in line and
Conformed
They who double-lock their doors and chain them for safety
Those poor sheep who have never experienced pain
Let the Hoi Polloi have him they cried, let them eat up their
Pastry

Claimed he was a philistine, claimed he was a hack
Wrote about nothing, wrote poems about his cat
Dared to write lines that rhymed, if you can imagine that

The critics never saw a man who had ever suffered for his     
Craft
Rod never wrote of the sexual molestation in his youth
At the hands of an Uncle and Aunt that he protected
Hiding his scars behind happy words, unable to speak the
Truth

No one knew he had overcome Hell to listen to the warm
And now the chains of mortality have fallen from his frame
Now he rests peacefully, no longer feeling ashamed