You are editor of the world’s foremost poetry journal, ULTIMA PRESTIGIAL.
You pride yourself on being discriminating to the maximal.
You are extremely difficult to please.
Until now, you have never read the perfect poem.
Your entire career, you have had to content yourself with publishing the merely competent
….and the occasionally inspired, but never flawless, poem.
Whenever you think of this, it makes you depressed —
Depressed, and tired….very tired.
You are thinking of it now.
Your eyes are getting heavy.
They are getting heavier and heavier.
Your eyelids feel as if they bear the weight of inferior poets’ egos.
You can keep your eyes open no longer.
You are asleep.
At the count of three, you will awaken.
When you awake, you will love this poem.
You will think it is the greatest poem ever written.
You will think it is THE PERFECT POEM.
You will think it is worth any price.
You will accept this poem for publication.
You will convert everything you own into cash.
You will send it all to this poet.
You will send half of all you make in the future to this poet.
If this poet sends you an impression of his ass, you will kiss it.
You will not think this poet is pressing his luck.
You will ADORE this poet.
You will set aside a room of your abode for a shrine to his poems.
You long to open your eyes and grovel at the base of the shrine.

You will defend this poem against attacks from jealous poets, rejectees, critics and academic zealots.
Now….where was I?