My friend, the poet, is a fraud
(He's also intellectually flawed),
He strings together, badly, I'm afraid.
Words without rhyme, their meanings strayed,
Undecipherable as hieroglyphics
Less literary, somewhat more scientific,
Four-line stanzas of moans and groans
Naked imagery without flesh or bones,
I've read several lines of his so-called verse
Each following line appears much worse
Then, the previous line I've read, I'm in shock,
So I criticise him, scoff, and bemock,
A blunt sword is mightier than his ink-dipped pen
Yet he continues with this nonsense over and again
He hopes for the recognition he believes he's earned
He's certainly not Shakespeare. Will he ever learn?
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