By I. E. Loquence
I mock you, pathetic poetaster,
with my own superior verse.
Your damnable doggerel
And sadly stilted lines
Pains my poet's ears.
I mock you, wretched wannabe,
With pointed words
And sharper wit.
I cut your work to ribbons
And laugh at the mess.
I mock you, false bard,
Purveyor of indifference,
Meretricious minstrel,
Seller of languid lines
And cheap tricks.
Away, foul prostitute!
Take your pedestrian works
And hawk them elsewhere.
Your pale glimmer fades
Beneath my mighty shadow.
THE END
(of your dismal dregs,
not my fine libations)
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