He thought it would be cool to write a poem
So, on a piece of paper, fresh and clean
He jotted words then jotted more below ’em
With offbeat punctuation in between.
The second and the fifth lines he indented,
Between odd pairs of words increased the gap,
But, though he’d thought success was what he scented,
It turned out on reflection to be crap.

He wrote upon then rubbished reams of paper,
Employed enjambment, assonance and rhyme
Avowing he would substitute, for vapor
The beautiful, the timeless, the sublime;
Then, ‘Fuck!’ he said: ‘this racket’s for the birds;
I’d rather shovel shit than shuffle words!’