Ah, Das, my dear, you shouldn't push,
It seems to not be well,
For the pointless stabs you seek to prove,
They merely prove your hell.


Torment though, oh, it has its gains,
Though be that as it may,
If you seek to call out other poems,
Then you'll listen to what I say.


Your meter has no rhythm,
And your rhythm has no rhyme,
But I'm sure you seen this happen before,
As it has done, time after time.


If you want to insult others,
In prose, or poem, or what,
I suggest you reread what you've wrote,
And keep your trap closed shut.


You disgrace the name of poetry,
With your feeble, ribald tones,
For poems are made to beautify,
And you have just been owned.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Aeguary, in the year 524 AF.