"That's tripe!"
That's what lotsa people say.
"You're writing rhymes that make ill
All those who stray
To a strange site where they find fake tunes,
And they gag, 'That's shlock!
Ghastly shlock in runes.'"

They say, "That's tripe!
Ain't funny and ain't clean.
This creep must get his kicks
Starin' at a screen.
Don't they vet it, vet it to wrest these clowns
From this rhyme-roast world?
It's givin' me frowns."

I am a putz posed as poet, a pugnacious poseur,
A pox who can't sing.
I'm a shmuck a clown, an ogre, a lout
Who don’t know nothing.
Each line I find rhyme hell,
Bawling hack, off the pace,
I just kick my Dell up
And then crank out more waste.

"That's tripe,"
I tell ya, I can't deny it.
I've botched what's written; crazy--
I'm a hardhead; ain't gonna cry "split."
But I can neither think
Nor let one good single lie:
I pump out a big turd
And let it fly.

"That guy should stuff it and stop it and stanch it and stow it.
A strong disliking
Have I got; this clown's an odious lout
And I know one thing:,
Each line this guy will pelt
On my Mac's a disgrace.
I just wish to myself I could hack and erase."

That's tripe!
That's tripe, and I can't deny it,
But the high-road thought of cutting out
Makes me start a cry fit.

And so I will keep makin' these "comic" jejune lines,
A gnomic troll who has got a Delphic scrawl
And whines.
Big time.