The Pushkin Cult

I’ve heard it said that each adult,
No matter how insightful,
Cannot resist a clever cult
Whose message is delightful.

Such is the case with Pushkinists
(The poet’s rhymes beguile us).
We see him in the distant mists
With foolscap, Muse and stylus.

Those quaint old quills from gander’s wing,
The pens with which he scribbled;
The lyric poems that cultists sing
Flew from those quills he nibbled.

Some think he was a reprobate
(We overlook his debits).
We’re much more prone to adulate
And tabulate his credits.

When cynics feel they must insult
By sneering at our love,
We’ll rise up and defend our cult
When Pushkin comes to shove.

It’s natural to rant and rave
About dear Pushkin’s oeuvre,
But what do cultists really crave?
Enshrinement in the Louvre!