No, I will not go with you, J. Alfred Prufrock.
You lied to me, titled your work misleadingly.
I didn’t expect you to pleadingly
invite me to your pity party.
I expected to read of a love so hearty
that it merited one hundred and thirty-one lines of prose.

But no; I find that there is no love in this song.
Only the bemoaning of your fate
and nonsensical lyrics of self-loathing hate.
For one who frets over the state of his looks,
you insert yourself into classic books,
and compare yourself to the heroes of old.

But are not their equal, no; and yet I can’t deny
you possess a mad brilliance of your own,
a logical insanity that is shown
through going with you twice or more,
from the dirty streets to the lonely shore.
And I hope that your life was not sad as this.