As I sit at my typewriter
I think my prose is getting shiter.
I don't know what I'm going to do
To stop my verse from being so poo.
Perhaps if I disappear mysteriously
Then my poems would be taken seriously.
If I vanished in a purple fart
Maybe they'd appreciate my subtle art.
But what can I do
About the poo
That comes out of my head
Of good stuff?
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dearie me.
Why do my poems smell of wee?
Why are they crappy and shitty and inane?
Why haven't I got a normal brain?
Is it because I'm quite insane?
Is that why I suffer so much literary pain?
People think that it is easy
Writing poetry that's cheesy.
Writing stories that make no sense
Makes me feel very tense.
My heart is that of a noble bard,
Not a block of lard!
So, why is it that whenever I try
To write a piece that will make them cry
And wish that they were dead,
Shite comes out instead?
Will I never, ever, ever
Compose a best seller?
Will I never write a book?
Will I never get a . . .
This is getting silly.
I must stick to the point.
There isn't one.