Your sublime rhyme, your wit, a hit
your gilt words, with so much merit.
and I put to paper, my sardonic pen,
allow me once, to start again.

Your stuttered wit, and shattered rhyme,
I seek and sought, and yet I find,
no sense of of rhythym, a dearth of sound,
your lack of symbols, is all I found.

Replete with your own surety,
penning poems of absurdity.
Hustle bustle with dull refrains,
I beg a favour, do abstain.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Miraman, in the year 636 AF.