Prosody Poem by oxir canada

There are those of us Who for the life can't stand the fuss. Writing poems just as they come to mind And suffer the disgrace of kind When compared with those gods of old Who seemed to have a touch of gold Writing poems with aplomb. Never seeming to go dumb In searching for words so dear That make the meaning clear. Perhaps some day a monument will rise To celebrate and recognize Poets like you and I Who'd rather spit in the eye Of those that try to capture Errant souls and make them endure Endless rules that bind Poets of another kind. So here's a tribute to that one, of literary fame, William McGonagall, Poet and Tragedian. (Certainly the worst English Poet of this or another century who wrote and performed (that is read) his poems in exchange of another draught.)