So much of that doggerel I’ve winnowed (barf! barf!)
At poetry I mostly fail
So, much of that doggerel I’ve winnowed (argh! argh!)
And ported it to the trash pail

I don’t have fast quips that will regale ya;
that’s why I ain’t prone to intone.
My chirping ain’t as my verse so loathsome—
all my doggerel will make you groan.

So much of that doggerel I’ve winnowed (barf! barf!)
My poetry can make you ail
So, much of that doggerel I’ve winnowed (argh! argh!)
And ported it to the trash pail

I’ve shredded the papers that held sonnets (bad! bad!);
In the trash can is where they’re parked.
My junk reads like dogshit of McKuen,
which scared those who by it were marked.

My tropes are not funny, neither witty;
I’m inclined to parroting schlock.
I once had a goal: to scribble pretty,
but cant is one thing I can talk.

So much of that doggerel I’ve winnowed (garb’! garb’!)
At poetry I mostly fail
So, much of that doggerel I’ve winnowed (garb’! garb’!)
My poems should land me in jail.