A poet rinsed his words through
And in-to good order put
He dried them and he checked them
So the reader wouldn't tut
He folded them so neatly
And so clean they wouldn't tend
Too really tell a story
Or in any way...offend
Then he had a feeling
That they could be misconstrued
And worried so completely
At the way they may be viewed
And so he washed and dried them
disinfected them as well
Not thinking that his cleanliness
Would mean he couldn't sell
The story he set out to tell
Which well along the way
Had simply lost all meaning
And smelt badly of decay
And so...back to the drawing board
The polished writer went
And vowed to write more filthy stuff
So folk knew what he meant