Last week I had a row with a poet
Thought he was great and made everyone know it,
Only problem with that
Is that he's a total prat
I'm sure he planted his ego to grow it.

I gave him something on paper I'd done
He said " How quaint I'll take it home to my drum."
He phoned me that night
Saying " My boy it's not right
but will be handy for wiping my bum."

I asked him " Does it always have to rhyme?"
He said " No lad not all of the time."
But I'm happy rhyming "twit"
with a "bucket of grit"
'Cause that way my rhyme will be fine.

The poet he did vanish in a farce
Last seen disappearing up his own arse,
I hope I won't fall in the trap
Of writing such crap
'Cause I want all my own crap to last.

If there's one thing I've learnt in all this
It's that poetry is all hit and miss,
Be careful what you say
As peers won't go away
And will delight in just taking the piss.