Words

To turn a phrase, quickly

The verso must be read

The left hand side we all despise

We wish the author dead

His language, uninspired

His subject is abhorred

We find his diction lacking

His details make us snore

The font used serves to grow

Hatred in a man

Truculence they hope to sow

By using comic sans

What were they thinking

When they edited this mess

Who decided this slop was worthy

Of the printing press

We wish the author strung up by foot

Facing all his words

We hope they sting his fragile mind

And cause the man to learn

What deeds of pen has he performed

To produce such sickly work

To read his books, we are forlorn

My cynic soul, it hurts