His lying mouth was cramped and shrill
Hate had given its brutal thrill
His criticism of the written lines
Moved way beyond his standard whines.
You’re not capable, rhymed verse to write
This truth comes from the proof delight.
Your poetry sucks; you need to stop
You’ve written no poems, they’re all a flop.
He stated it clearly for all to hear
He is the greatest without peer
Writing poetry and stopping those
Who dared to send what they compose.
He has the proof to back his claim
No one will dare oppose his fame
His poems are known throughout the land
Everyone reads them, he is THE MAN!
Yet, with his fame and fortune gains
The hatred still flows within his veins.
So could it be the words above
Are nothing more than podunk crud.
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