Poem: Iambic Penta-Manure

“The challenge,” said the bard, “is simply stress;
applied with timing right and words still fresh.
He handed quill and ink for me to say
how I compare you to a summer day.

…, iambic mumble penned in metric botch
poetic mangled mayhem — meaning lost ….
I cannot write a lyric verse. Just watch
as stanzas freely given form are tossed
in steaming heaps of verbal dung and stench.
I best surcease from writing with a wrench.

The bard now hangs his head in shame
because my verse is much too lame.


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