Mock not my words!
As I've said oft,
To bygone speech
Mine cap is doffed.

Methinks but ill
Of the slang adventury
That mars our tongue
In the 21st Century.

Roger, thanks for "oft"--it's as good as "alway." "Adventury" is pretty impressive, too.

Alas, how oft a well-wrought intervention
Crafted with care and honest in intention
Thrown proudly down like furious plaintiff's gage
Is f*cked when some c*nt starts another page...

Pardon, good sirs, the language here espoused -
I fear my inner Wilmot was aroused.
.

Ann, I confess I do not know Lord John Wilmot's corpus as well as I should. I have done some research. Here's a stanza from "Signior Dildo:"

The Countess o'th'Cockpit (who knows not her name?
She's famous in story for a killing dame),
When all her old lovers forsake her, I trow,
She'll then be contented with Signior Dildo.

Alas, all my endeavours seem in vain
I did but seek to make the matter plain.
I wrought a little ditty for thy pleasure
Stuff'd full of wicked wit and merry measure.
I weep to see thee cruelly ignore this,
It being orphaned on the page before this.

Aaron, your Metrical wish "I'd rather read a song/poem about herpes"
is my command.


A spell for the removal of...

Avaunt thee, Herpes, thou persistent sore
That clingst, unbidden, like a needy whore.
Thou mak'st a midden of mine upper lip
Giving, the while, a goodly bit of gyp.
Thou festerest, impediment to bliss,
Stabbing me worst whene'er I purse to kiss.
Begone, thou evil cherry, shrink and go
To feast upon the facehole of my foe!
.

I'm not the Aaron you mean, but still, bravo.

(Your poem that got bottom-of-the-paged is pretty good, too. But the Herpes poem is my favorite of the thread thus far.)

Why, thank you, other-Aaron! What a joy
To be thus praised by a well-mannered boy.
But honesty demands you should be told -
Archaic verse comes easy to the old.

Indeed, for as the old trope sayeth,
Elder and child are akin.
The old, whose hairs make flee and grayeth,
Is aged, of an other age,
And finds the new speak too new-fangled
To pierce her wrinkled, leather skin.
Meanwhile, alas, the child is strangled
By words already put to page,
And, imitating long-dead Bards,
The Sphere with oldish tripe bombards.

I fear that poem may lose me the epithet "well-mannered", though.