Poet's drunken bitterness with a vain of truth, wondering at possible judgement - resolves to make poem more modest.

I want to be
so good a poet
that people don't
clap for me
out of respect.

To be heckled
by ignorant fools
with liquor on their lips
would be glorious;

I'd rather that
than unsure,
unfeeling,
indifferent
English respect.

The good,
along with the bad,
along with the unborn,
go hand-in-hand
in their warm palms.

And it's trying.