Why call this mangled mess a poem?

Why call this mangled mess a poem?
This meaningless jumble in a tome.

Its lines don’t rhyme, its words don’t flow.
And of it’s meaning I don’t know.

Contrived by critics, up from the ground,
“Eureka!” they cried, “The meaning is found”

But, to me this poem is an offence.
Its awkward stanzas make no sense.

Since this poem one can’t appreciate,
The lit book’s value it depreciates.

So like a tumor inside your head,
It mustn’t be treasured, but discarded instead.