Here's one, though not by me. It was a winner in a long ago New Statesman competition and effectively prevented me from reading the good lady's works. I don't know who wrote it. Probably Bill Greenwell will know. It could have been him.
Higgledy-piggledy,
Dorothy Richardson
Wrote a long novel in
Search of her Muse,
Where, though I wouldn’t sound
Uncomplimentary,
Nothing much happens and
Nobody screws.
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