You call yourself a poet,

You thick, illiterate lout,

Oh, you string some words together,

Now and then, I have no doubt,

But where’s your poise? Your symmetry,

Your grammatical repost,

Your understanding of the rules of verse,

Without which all is lost?,

Oh, it’s true I suppose, once in a while,

Your words can raise a tear,

And sometimes your inane rambling,

Are pleasing to the ear,

But where’s the fire, the passion,

Of the Bard, Byron or Keats,

The picture perfect imagery,

Of bustling city streets,

The Knights in shining armour,

That rode so long ago,

Or the demons, dark and menacing,

Of Edgar Allen Poe,

Or Banjo’s outback stories,

Or Lawson’s city life,

How could you compare yourself to these,

With the rubbish that you write,

How dare you fantasise that you,

And your scribbling of a child,

In verse or prose, come even close,

To the likes of Oscar Wilde,

Your spelling is atrocious,

Each stanza, dull or bland,

And those you spell correctly,

To bizarre to understand,

You think perhaps that I’m unfair,

My criticism hurts ?

Well this my friend is how I feel,

When I look at my own work,

By S.E.Ralph

6-5-2003