I hear all your words,
You all sound so dead,
Go find some life!
Chop off some heads!

Your poetry is nice,
but sometimes so drall.
I feel like smashing my face,
into a damn wall.

Are poets all dead?
With all those wordy tears?
Can you entertain?
Or would you rather slump to your rears?

I don't mind some emotion,
but Gods, try to relax!
The lunatics don't even complain,
and they eat cockroach sacks!

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Glacian, in the year 582 AF.