Oh, Poet, with your pretentious thoughts so shallow,
Whose rhyme and verse, falsely,
You profess to be so hallowed.
Rest the quill and stay your hand,
For your work is soft like shit.
Whoa to you, Scribe, with the superfluous garbage,
Falling out from your worthless brain.
Please cease in your long-lettered attack.
Roll your work into a ball, tight as can be,
And then jam it deep into your crack.
Have a nice day.
To The Poet Who Thinks He’s The Shit