Iamb octet my model--nyet!--when I amb mocking "General."
The meter peters out, evanesces until ephemeral.
I amb a pest with anapest; I limn lyric limerical
But queer it with some pyrrhic pitch--'palled poet pals, hysterical.

I amb no good, ain't understood the matters mathematical.
And so I stretch my stress and guess what's best for the emphatical.
Inline rhyme, crime? Nein! I'm inclined. . .mine, find, grind lots to often use;
Slack, lax my cracks at tracking tunes--potshots wrought by a rotten muse.

Laid back is my attack; I lack in wit yet sit in thought 'n' muse.

I'll try to find a word that rhymes or a term for "homunculus."
My rhyming book ain't me forsook; I look--just one "ranunculus."
I sort through pages in which sages explain matters lexical. . .
I've looked it up; it's "buttercup." Plants can't shtup--bupkes testicles.

I’m bleary-, teary-, weary eyed; I ain’t applied my spectacles.

But, tracking back to my attack on this tune by the pair who thought
Of all this folderol brilliantly scrawled, and still I dare to trot
Out take-offs where I make up fake words such as "squirds" and "crabulous". . .
Neologistic solecistic, but one rhymes with "fabulous."

I can't quell it; I'm compelled--hit upon assonance lib'rally.
Of course I'll take recourse to forms I've forced alliteratively:
Pepper pale posts with puns punishing this poem, passing "Pinafore,"
And try perhaps to tackle that after this, where I've been afore.

When all else fails, a belt of ales or trite "tight" rhymes like "gin galore."

I know I blow poetic podiatry that to me's the norm;
Post-posting this, ditch it for Hitch. . .bitch-bitched twitcher loony, the Norm.
I sort through pages in which sages are most netiquettical.
Without Wikis, where'd be nick me in hefty thefts of metrical. . .

Lyrical lines; I have just mined a rhyme for sem'nal vesicle.

Meandering and maundering, this mishmash is unravelin',
My tapestry of parody hastily basted, bafflin'.
I've faked too many takes on the two tunesmiths--one was hairy, fat;
Composer's slightly lighter; with adipose writer, airs begat.

I've seen photos of Gilbert's pose; appears "pleasingly plump" to me,
While Sullivan seems sour and dour; maybe down in the dumps was he.
Here I hypothesize: internal cries' churlish chirp: "Sadden me,"
While his collaborator's inner orator burped: "Fatten me!"

And on the Pinafore, galore, the hatches harangue: "Batten me!"

I have pillaged from these songsters. . .results sucky and tangentially
Touch on the topic 'fore I'm off it, 'cause I'm a man's ADD. . .
Means in matters math'matical, prerequisite for metrical
Perfection, my connection's tenuous, not exegetical.

Ain't got the eye for measures: I'd mess, sure, up--hex a reticle.