A Poem

There was a certain Poet with much rhymery by verse,
And his poor mocking Rival had procrastination's curse.
Full witty was this poet, yea, his words rang so grammatical,
His topics dull were but absorbed by rhyme-schemes mathematical.

Did he, when writing poesy, perhaps the wrong Muse smooch?
To College Rhymeschemelogical for him mayhap we'll vouch,
His brilliantly clunky words no human meter bear,
But as a Poet excellent his rhymes are always fair.

And having mastered th'only part of poetry e'er mattering,
He gazes at his Rivals work- his laughter's sound is shattering.
The Poet is superior, and blogs so very frequently,
He nags and scorns his Rival for not writing thus subsequently.

For after all, at every call, on every single day,
Of every week and month, the Poet writes his heart away,
While his benighted Rival, coward! makes verse with great caution:
Ha! Knowing Complex Rhymes, the Poet heeds no such fool's notion.

The Poet stands in Triumph, Rival dragged behind in chains:
To write, the Poet laughs- he will not take such silly pains:
He's mastered all there is to know of all poetic skill,
And now's content to mock his foe for not writing his fill.

And thus, stood straight, not writing, high above, with jeering tongue,
He fails to read his Rival's blog when a new poem's strung.
The Poet writes a ton each day, and therefore he is Better,
Which is wherefore he ne'er again need write a single letter.