Poetic Judgement Day

Pen this, scribble that,
one more feather in my cap.
Grab a meter, set the time,
mastering another rhyme.

What's that? It doesn't flow?
Well dear reader, you can blow
it up your ass, I could care
less if you are unaware,

of my talents which I speak,
suffering your dull critique.
I'm the God of wordsmithing
quit your pompous blithering.

I shall pen a thousand prose
right beneath your bloody nose.
And when you snub it in the air,
I hope that you are well aware.

I'm the God of ink and pen,
often wry with my zen,
spewing genius wordy brews,
turning critics into muse.