Speaking in Tongues

If I could do Donne,
I'd call you Sojourner Sunne.
Compare your rays
To a hundred compasses.
Arrange your feats
Into neat little conceits.

If I could speak Eliot,
I'd tell of Michelangelo,
Of women who come and go,
While you shrink away
(Much like poor Prufrock's hair),
and make me fret.

If I had symbols as neat
as those of Yeats,
I'd dub you,
in sheer defeat,
a dark angel,
of the Second Coming fleet.

But since I have nothing
But a clumsy, fumbling tongue
I'm asking you to stay put,
Nicely, with a please.
And if you still don't listen,
I'll speak you flogged and hung.