An entertaining look at the writing process.
professor of Rhymology in the School of Bard Crocks
and master caster of arcane pontification,
pondering the meaning of poppycock and dirty socks.
As flatulent arbiter of twitterary finesse,
I gather a horde of scriptophrenic dingbats
under the old oak tree to spout syllabilliness,
flaunting their toothless grins and monstrous bling tatts.
We’ll have a party to celebrate inanity,
as we waddle through the twaddle in our writing nook.
Before long, we’ll be salivating insanity
to execute the poem-a-day oath we took.
Holy Stromboli! They’re cooking ravioli
with guacamole and serving it with cannoli.
Marty Moriarty is ready to party hearty,
but he forgot about the old farty tarty.
We pump a pile of super poop from prolific brains
and post abundant gobs of graffiti in the john
to paint blunderful word pictures in lyrical chains
and dazzle folks with our arroquent lexicon.
A proud recipient of the Butt Kiss Award,
I remain oblivious to Sir Byron Crapsalot
and his critical cohorts, whose rants are underscored
by a vast array of incriminating polyglot.
Quoting dingleberry daubs of gobbledy gook,
I’ll persist in publication of my poetry book.