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Poetic Justice by Philip Philmar
He wrote substandard sonnets His limericks were limp His stanzas stank His rhymes were rank His couplets fell apart
His doggerel was dodgy His ballads were all balls His jingles junk His verse was bunk His prose was one big fart
A pile of books collapsed one day They knocked him to the floor His breath was hushed One tome had crushed The haiku in his heart
A thesaurus and a dictionary Had smashed his skull and chest Here lies a man Whose words don’t scan - S’what you get for lousy art. | ||
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