I dreamt of dress in startling white;
like light from on high, my gaze it bought
(I a very good start to a poem I thought... then)
"Tosser!" came the curt critique,
the crowd that night were far from chic!
"Your fuckin' meter's just not right...
in fact your poem's a load of shite!
I don't scan proper, it don't rhyme
being here's a waste of time!
There's a shakespere play on radio free,
we're off 'ome, me mate and me!"
So off they flounced, I carried on...
An angel - held in air as one...
"Anyway that Shakespere bloke..."
the oaf popped back for just one poke
at my attempt to match the bard,
a task he thought "'t will be fuckin' 'ard,
see Shakespere really knew his craft,
When I heard yours I really laughed!..."
It was then I felt my hackles rise,
my poem dismantled, before my eyes,
by this rough nail, in rags before...
well I'd love to see him take to the floor!
The gauntlet there and then laid down
"Come forth sir and take my crown!"
Shall I compare thee to a summers day?
...I picked up my coat and was on my way!
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