I wished I were a poet -
'Twas a non-ambitious plan,
For I can make my stanzas rhyme
And make my verses scan.
But something seems to keep me from
Distinction in the field,
For though I try to make my mark
The art world will not yield.
And so I sought to well peruse
An Arts-approved selection -
See what ideas profess'nals use
In publish'ble collections.
But there arrived the problem -
In the poems which I saw,
I understood 'bout half the words,
And phrases? One in four.
It seems, to make a poem great,
Two things one needs in tandem;
A set of words you've never heard
And sentences quite random.
Maybe I'd just missed the point,
Whilst not-so-deeply gleaning,
Or just am not quite bright enough
To find the hidden meaning.
But then Poet's Key came clear -
Revealed, with no surprises,
"The biggest load of pompous ass
Since Pater dropped his trousers."