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.
26 April, 2018
Daily prompt: Cur