This is the worst poem
ever written. It lacks
subtlety and it has a structure that is trite and cheap.
There are no insightful metaphors, and
Issac Brock is no author of classics,
however, he
speaks to me
as I speak to myself.
For, for the worst poem,
there must be an audience of uninspired wretches.
Poems, poems, poets, writing
stupid epic poems and the
angsty mumbling girls
will outshadow me
certainly.
Unless there can be no way to judge
(which there is)
or
unless judgment is as ambiguous
as poetry itself.