Bob Dylan Nobel Prize & Johnny Cash in The New Yorker

[Achebe]

Thanks. I'm a shit writer, of course, but I hope I'll never have to write drivel such as the excerpt below. If the above is what you think is great poetry, then I rest my case.
Wait...I'm now getting the feeling that you're having me on. If so, then it's masterful. If not, then...well, let's just say that Dylan should refuse the Nobel and save the world some embarrassment 

Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing really nothing to turn off

and if we're looking for cringe how about

Impossible angel

Beer and cigarettes
and you, your languid locks,
are always in my world of drunken walks
through Barbican and Bishopsgate,
in the moonbeam shallows
of walls spattered with poetry.

Thursday nights your longing is a sea
crossing through hours of drunkenness.
Mindful glances in the mermaid shadows
turn not to me.

Impossible angel
that runs not to me.

But runs to the deep sea's emptiness
in the white frothed wave that follows
the moon's pale lamp of loneliness
that burns not for me.

At least my rhymes have 3 syllables 
Dylan's sound like they were written by the Turkana boy (not to mock the proto-humanoids)
And hey, nobody's offering me the Nobel prize, but maybe now they should