Taylor Swift’s eleventh studio album, “The Tortured Poets Department,” released April 19, doesn’t deliver the poetic brilliance her marketing promised due to its devotion to quantity over quality. 

She released 15 extra songs in classic Swift fashion at 2 a.m., subtitled “The Anthology.”

For all the nosy naysayers, there’s some juicy insight into her past London boy lovers throughout the album, but at what cost?

With 31 songs spanning two hours, it’s like Swift took her crumpled-up drafts from an overflowing trash can and went straight to the studio — they don’t feel fine-tuned. 

Swift has become a tank in the music industry with the billion-dollar grossing Eras Tour, and she shows no signs of slowing down, which may be the very thing that falters her career.

Based on its advertising, Swifites may have assumed the album would exude the same pensive and clever energy of “The Lakes,” arguably her most poetic song, off her critically acclaimed pandemic album “Folklore.”

But, like her previous record, “Midnights,” the fans were duped; the album’s sound doesn’t exactly reflect her Instagram’s melancholic, sophisticated aesthetic. 

The opening lyrics in the first song, “Fortnight (feat. Post Malone),” are not promising, and it only gets cornier. 

Swift sings in a low, echoey voice, “I was supposed to be sent away / But they forgot to come and get me / I was a functioning alcoholic / ‘Til nobody noticed my new aesthetic.”

At least Swift and Malone’s voices effortlessly blend, making him a natural inclusion, as the pair moodily sing, “I love you, it’s ruining my life / I touched you for only a fortnight.”

The title track’s subject is none other than Matty Healy, the lead singer of the English pop band The 1975, with whom Swift shared a fleeting summer dalliance last year. 

She sings, “You smokеd, then ate seven bars of chocolate / We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep / Like a tattooed golden retriever.”

Speaking of head-scratching, who greenlit these lyrics? 

They do little besides telling the world Healy once got a sick case of the munchies and giving Puth an unnecessary shoutout. 

However, like many songs on the album, it is salvaged with a catchy melody.

Swift references renowned poets and admits to the couple’s own silly self-importance with the lyrics, “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots.’”

If listeners thought there would only be one odd marijuana reference in this album, they were gravely mistaken.

Fifteen seconds into “Florida!!! (feat. Florence + The Machine),” Swift sings, “And my friends all smell like weed or little babies.”

At least the world got to hear a Florence Welch feature in a power ballad about using Florida as a drug. 

Besides the baffling lyricism, the album’s production hurts the most, thanks to her partnership with musician Jack Antonoff, who paralyzes most songs with a cumbersome production.

In fact, what separates the good from the bad is who produced it. 

The album’s high points are “But Daddy I Love Him” and “So Long, London,” which happen to be produced by Aaron Dessner, founding member of The National, who also produced the majority of the songs on “Folklore” and “Evermore.”

“But Daddy I Love Him” is a breath of fresh air from the stale synth beats and drum machines, with Swift diving back into the waters of folk rock.

Audiences are teleported to a fairytale-like moment of undying love as Swift belts, “Now I’m running with my dress unbuttoned / Screamin’, ‘But, daddy, I love him! I’m having his baby’ / No, I’m not, but you should see your faces.”

The lyrics may lean toward cheesy, but it feels pleasantly amusing against the crumbs of country instrumentals. 

The slower and devastating chamber pop song “So Long, London” alludes to Swift’s British actor ex Joe Alwyn and renders him a cold, disinterested lover. 

The production is simple yet haunting, transforming it into one of the record’s most memorable songs. 

Although smoother than the first, the album’s second part isn’t exactly the most polished.

In “So High School,” Swift chants, “Brand-new, full throttle / Touch me while your bros play ‘Grand Theft Auto’” about her current boyfriend, the Chiefs football star Travis Kelce. 

Her songwriting has always been confessional, but this is becoming concerning. 

Swift took the poet persona too literally and implemented rhymes everywhere, but the problem is not in the rhyming itself but in the lack of payoff.

Plenty of songs rhyme, but it’s far from a requirement, and if it does rhyme, the goal is to draw emphasis, not take away. 

The lyrics on “Tolerate It” from “Folklore,” “If it’s all in my head, tell me now / Tell me I’ve got it wrong somehow / I know my love should be celebrated / But you tolerate it” rhyme in each line, but it works because they are devastating and well-constructed. 

The consistent rhyme schemes against the limp beats are abrasive without careful mediation, and the melody can’t always play superhero.

Swift is such a massive success that she could totally afford to wait longer in between album releases.

In the meantime, she should consider Antonoff more of a friend and less of a coworker.

“The Tortured Poets Department” is available to stream on Spotify and Apple Music.