Soul Of Wit Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Ironic that most who with Shakespeare hold
that brevity remains the soul of wit
possess attention spans that somehow fit
down to a tee that adage from of old.
The odds are high that by and large we're sold
quotations which on brainless temples sit
with trite, pre-packaged, quotes that urge we quit
deep delved reflections left out in the cold.
Poets who deal in 'novels' far from fold
are banished by 'profanum vulgus' lit
by no Aladdin's lamp, that cares no whit
for subtle talent's hints of hidden gold.
Must epic poems be confined to dust
when modern wit so soon decays to rust?