I can rhyme quite easily, age on age
Filling up each long blank page
Spouting words with little meaning
A fault for which I have a leaning
Because I’m here you keep on reading
When mercy is what your heart is pleading
And though I have a kindly heart
You must finish all before we part
Ever had a dream where you can’t escape
The victim of murder, robbery, or rape
Chased by monsters and can’t get away
Well, you’re in one now, even though it’s day
The poet spins in darkened grave
Niceties’ eternal slave
This tosh insults his metered ear
But he’s down there, while I’m up here
So let him keep his clever wits
While I write on of bums and tits
Being worthy ain’t my gig
Which rhymes, of course, with pig or prig
Everything I write will match
Day and night, but here’s the catch
Is my poetry worth a light
Or is it just a bag of shite
I sod about with words and rhymes
A thousand, thousand, thousand times
Sausage-like I’ll string my words
Writing of plums, whey and curds
I must stop now to my great sorrow
But I’ll be back upon the morrow
Filling paper white or blue
With, yes, a great big heap of poo
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