In the land of Sapience, a thief once roamed
Stealing from all, deft hands in pockets combed
But now his ways have changed, he seeks the light
Of positivity, a noble sight

Yet, there's one thing that still does vex his soul,
The poetry board, he cannot control.
Innumerable works banal and trite
A linguistic evil; a pox, or blight

For all attempts at blissful, joyous peace
Abhorrent verse continues with no cease
And so instead he'll waste and steal your time
Instead of subterfuge he'll now use rhyme

So if you find that this poesy is stale
Kindly enclose some gold with your hate mail
And though this objective may seem quite kitsch
There shall be no halt before he is rich

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Scarlatan, in the year 914 AF.