Shall these words be my own,

for the poet has an unquenchable writing thirst,

and when matched to those unwilling to try,

May it come in for the worst.

Yonder lays a sea,

of those unwilling to try,

their efforts O so great,

couldn’t I just die.

Poets,

drop your pens,

write any longer, we must refrain.

For these low-life writers

Should be freed from their restricting chains.

A fakely written poem,

lacks the needed flair,

must it be oiled and conditioned,

not left like unbrushed hair.

Shan’t we permit

the masked traitors to override us,

As the poets touch,

Is a gift greater than that of Midas

Release the authentic poets from their shackles,

In our heads we cackle, 

Because these professional copy cats

Are O,

Beyond too good for us