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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