Upchucked Splat Of Wibble

Not by a minute of latitude, nor
In any accurate assessment, you
Of that most noble and venerable variety
The old "Silvered Lion Poet" of lore
Though you self-delude you are
You swellheaded moth-balled bore
Doubtful you could muster a single roar
You dunderheaded bacterial spore
Even know who a Lion's roar is for?
Patting yourself on your slabby back
With a hollow spine that slumps and slacks
Creaking and cracking
Most definitely lacking
You irascible bloated blummy hack
Drooling 2 pound chuck with your bibble
While you belch and scratch and scribble
With an ink-dipped rusty dibble
That upchucked splat of wibble
You so adamantly adore
That puffed-up poetry of yours.

by Cin Sweet Fields

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