Is William Butler Yeats our Poet Laureate?

>Hates journoids (assuming he agrees with the man in the golden breastplate, Denadhach)

>Hates bongs (see: literally anywhere)

>Talked a lot of shit in his 73 years, but was patently too much of a kitty to ever do anything but make rhymy words, and everyone knew it

>Kissless incel for most of his life because he suffered crippling oneitis (Maud Gonne was more into patriotic chads who needlessly killed themselves for paltry Ireland)

>Schizophrenic mystic: 95% of his poems blather esoteric nonsense about perning gyres and fairies and incarnate spirits. Remaining 5% is historical cuck fiction (honestly, if a poem makes sense, then it's probably about whores having s*x while he sits in the cuck box)

>Lifelong coomer who was only spurred on to continue writing or living so as to look at young girls

Too mystic for the IRA-types he postured as, too learnèd for the bumkins he would imitate, too effete to score, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature because someone from Ireland needed to win it, and his Prius was laden with the most pro-Ireland bumper stickers.

Lacking the lyricism or earthiness of Robert Burns, the erudition or cats of Eliot, the humor or bussy of Wilde, or even actual voice or coherence of Lady Gregory, Yeats makes up for this all by just sorta being a weird loser geek talking gibberish nobody cares about.

Truly, he is a man for all seasons. He is literally me.