All those lazy stinking poets
Verse on verse; they think they know it
How I loathe their slacker ways
While they sit there in their desks all day
Dreaming up a verse of horses
I'd love to crush their creative forces
Or darkness, depression, suicide
Why don't I write of poet-cide
They say that poems can't be joy induced
Haven't they read Doctor Suess?
And most of them don't ever ryhme
You'd think that they would spare the time
To end their phrases with something witty
That actually fits inside their ditty
And all this talk of metered lines
I should go and break their spines
Iambic pentametres and emphasis
This trash makes critics swoon with bliss
While they speak of the poet's prose and talent
It just makes me want to vomit
This stuff gets published again and again
I'm throwing myself upon my pen
My schoolmates can keep their filthy As
I'll never change my bitter ways
But as the ink stained tip runs me through
This poem you could at least review.
I hope you considered that last line. If you didn't, I'll make a poem about readers next.
Heh heh. Just kidding.