Nothing verse than a bunch of pungent allusions.
Now flock, flock together and read what I write.
Observe the skillful words my feather does ink.
My name remains hidden and kept out of sight,
Despite the deep and mighty thoughts that I think,
Else one could critique me and provide a slight.
Pox! A pox on those vultures; my stones should pelt!
Let me fly, fly like my ego,
Unless my wingéd wax doth melt.
My quivering pike will write o’er ev’ry foe.
Ego’s name is a name sweetly to be smelt.
To do, or not to …
Enhance the meter, but preserve the pre-verse pungent allusions. I've already made it go from bad to verse.
I shake my spear many times to Bill; I echo Umberto; I rejoice in James; I lift my stein to Gertrude.
And to the millers of the band of Steve;
And to the featherin’ brethren, and other smart birds;
But most especially to the anonymous writers who have no ‘stones’.