Why, she said, in despair
Do these things keep happening to me
Does no one here really care
About this bad poetry?
The other day the poet raved
Her hair was glimmering gold
And in her sleep her hair was shaved
And taken to be sold
Then the poet wrote her beauty fair
Could stop a thousand hearts
She awoke to find corpses everywhere
They had to remove them in carts
Then he wrote that gentlemen
Would throw themselves at her feet
The next day again and again
They kept tripping her in the street
Finally she had enough
Of this poets romanticism
It was time for her to get tough
To reject his composition
She realised that the poetry
Was really just a curse
It had no meaning in reality
It only made things worse
So she sat down at the table
And got herself a pen
She knew that she was able
To turn the tide again
She wrote a poem about the poetry
The Poets joy and pride
She mentioned his vulgarity
And much more beside
She bemoaned his poor use of verse
And she rhymed every line
In doing so she reversed the curse
Sent fear in the poets spine
So beware poets one and all
Once written there’s no reverse
You cannot regret or recall
No way to stop the curse
Better to not write one line
Than write and rue the day
And if it’s as bad as mine
Who’s going to read it anyway?