A wince--I've made poorly parsed pentameter;
Iambs I've blown.
Gazing at the Windows-festooned screen, bestowed
With some dreadful dogg'rel, mindless mounds of mots,*
I fashion schlock,
I'm bad at rhyming.

Shithouse walls are for this breed of writing
That none my venerate.
I have feeble penmanship;
Pen name I should claim
Then languish like a lump in shame's domain.
I fashion schlock,
I'm bad at wryming.

I'll mock a dove--hellish, churlish words are stored
As sleaze in my disk's memory.
My work's a scourge; each number
Makes "Feelings" look sublime.
Riffs mine never lovely, clever--just schlub rhyme.
I fashion schlock,
I'm flat when I sing.

I bang out book-
length mired parodies, too prolix, me.
Iambs wielded ain't my karma.
Writing rhymeless runes, tasteless tiresome tunes,
I, shmuck, post shmutz, poseur-putz poetry.

I fashion schlock,
I'm fat from idling.

And my schlock's really lame.
I must try and get a life.


*words