The Poetaster’s
Plaint
or
Sad Poem About What A
Shame It Is When A Poet’s Poem Peters Out
I was rhyming
along, going strong, had it made,
With a dash of
panache and fierce rodomontade,
Persiflage,
badinage in a two-car garage,
What a writer,
such a rhymester, poetaster to a T!
Then my poem
petered out on me . . .
Nothing left, half-assed
rhymes, just a treacly metre.
No more dash of
panache, but a pinch of saltpeter;
Yes, my poem
petered out . . .
Ignominiously .
. .
My poem petered
out . . .
On me . . .
