You have to get beyond your Bakeoff jones,
you types with competition in your bones -
there's more to life than struggles over thrones,
or poetry that seems the work of clones
determined to outdo each other's drones.
It's all a showoff thing - if one condones
a Sphere of winner's yips and loser's moans
then life becomes a storm of well-aimed stones.
No preeening, posing, metric megaphones
for this pure soul; no steaming bourgignons
of tortured metaphors, no awful groans
of rhyme-forced lines left out there on their owns.
No flashy stuff. Just simple monotones.
I'll huddle with the other shy unknowns,
for only Gods can create perfect poems.
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