My friend, the poet, is a fraud

(He's also intellectually flawed),

He strings together, badly I'm afraid,

Words without rhyme, their meanings strayed,

Undecipherable as hieroglyphics

Less literary, somewhat more scientific,

Four-line stanzas of moans and groans

Naked imagery without any flesh or bones,

I've read several lines of his so-called verse

Each following line appears worse

Than the previous line I read, I'm in shock,

So I criticise him, scoff, and bemock,

A blunt sword is mightier than his ink-dipped pen

Yet continues with this nonsense over and again

He hopes for the recognition he believes he's earned

He's certainly no Shakespeare, will he ever learn?