I wrote a poem for all to see,
I thought they’d love its imagery.
The words I chose for stanza four
seemed the perfect metaphor.
For judicious alliteration
I held in much anticipation
all the praise that’d come my way;
such clever things I had to say.
Who knew they’d never notice how
with perfect meter I’d endowed
each line with five iambic feet.
And what about my great conceit?
They only criticized my rhyme
and claimed I didn’t take the time
to use my spell and grammar check -
so they can all go straight to heck!
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