I like this one, an English translation of a poem by Russian poet David Kugultinov. It has no title.
A critic on his table laid
The poem picked for thorough study
And with his pointed scalpel made
A full dissection, set the bloody
Dismembered lines on slides to pass
Beneath his magnifying glass.
The poetry, once a living whole,
Into raw meat had been converted
And, being an objective soul,
The critic solemnly asserted:
"I've probed this poem with my knife
And cannot find a breath of life."
Short, but maybe not so sweet. Depends what sort of tone you're looking for, really.