Nothing here is meant to offend. It's just a satire, okay?! And it's badly written, so take pity on my poor wasted soul.


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.