I hate my work, I hate my work;
O work, why can’t you work?
Why, posy, do you stream so dull,
Whose life is nill, and image, null?
Wordy stutters of nothingness
Why are you the way I must address
The emotions, the issues, the stuff
That I wish to write something of?
My boring posy, my boring posy,
So pretentious and yet so lousy,
I hate your way, your form, your whatever,
Always rhyming away into forever.
O boring posy, where is your life?
You are the sick rose, and aid my strife:
Full of ‘fors’ and ‘therefores’ and ‘buts’
(To the poet, these are the literary sluts),
And what coinage is mine? None at all!
O posy, all you do is drool!
You try to mimic the heroes and greats
But all you do is procrastinate:
For when I read back over your lines,
All I find is a bunch of words that rhyme,
And the content – don’t get my started,
There is none – except the retarded!
Posy, posy, my friend, and my bane;
Posy, exciting, and so too so inane.
Posy, please change. Your boring.
Boring. Rubbish. Bad. Boring.