Thump, Thump, Thumping

Within his podunk Lib’ral head
A mental cough in total dread,
The thump, thump, thumping of poet rhymes
Flew madly through his stupid lines.
The words come forth in black and white,
A thump, thump, thumping through the night.
As sludge drips from his mental scars,
Sharing prose with a thousand stars.

Against the truth of this awful strain
In darkness, he in angry vain,
A shallow little podunk, pouts
In brief defiance, racked with doubts,
And passes on, and leaves no trace.
For stupidity holds him to his place,
As thump, thump, thumping is his thing.
That’s all that’s needed to make him sing.

His lines still lie obscure and blank
On empty paper as if a prank.
The thump, thump, thumping of his pen
Reminds him of the dark within.
And quietly he thumps his feet
In hopes of bringing words so sweet.
All he hears is the same old thump,
The same old podunk lib’ral chump.

And still he thumps and thumps some more,
But words don’t come just as before.
Was he wrong to expect success
When all he knows is to acquiesce
To the lib’ral lie and its elitist snobs
And to all the other evil slobs.
I find it funny and quite unique,
To read the junk he calls critique.

He truly thinks that thumps belong
With iambic short and dactyl long.
His knowledge of the poetry verse,
Shows a mind on steroids but in reverse.
The hatred shown in all things said
Goes right back to a heart that’s dead.
There’s nothing here I can report
So that leaves execute or deport.