all boils down to sex

old gods are dragged onto analyst's couch
their foibles torn apart with little thought
the simplest matters are with meaning fraught
and strange beings onto mount ida slouch
winds are contained in a most tiny pouch
but what the writer meant must go for naught
the critic always claims the truth is caught
in weasel words that under windows crouch
rain's but a metaphor and not a fact
of farmer's lives that needs no extra gloss
for us to see just what the image means
every symbol's been by a botcher racked
we read and we can't even give a toss
at the sacred significance of beans