Cur Doggerel

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Cur Doggerel

Some have openly claimed

and will remain unnamed.

To charge a person of our esteemed Salon—

(Oh, sacred Muses be swift, now intervene),

Composes hack poems from midnight till past dawn—

(So quickly sharpen the rusty guillotine).

Brusk poesy hardly so refined, void of grace, a “spewed fit”

Poetry so crude and burlesque, in pain, like being dog bit.

If so-call poems were likened to a stream, no images of burbling brook

Such worthless pratter would be a gutter full of putrid, infested muck.

If it were a dog, then a mutt, a nameless breed

Unrefined rhyme, senseless, no pleasant creed.

Those scribbles could be parsed

As scrawl, pariah, wild, or worse.

If classification were a task to be described,

illuminate mindless jibber, the naughty implied.

Digressions inhabit every line within failed couplets

patter rhythm, base humor, and scores of murky subjects.

However one may slice it–

chop, mince, or finely dice it;

Fair words in all pleasant company, so proper to say

This mash n’er resemble poetry—in no-dog-gone way.

These are barks and howls

All threatening growls

Not poems by any measure, is the just charge

Merely more cur doggerel, writ very large.

© Lemuel

26 April, 2018

Daily prompt: Cur

Cur

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