The apoplectic writer
was kept inside a cage
This literary fighter
Could not control his rage
His fame had lately traveled
They said his scalp was red
For if his plot unraveled
His pen would stab his head
He thrashed and punched the paper
And as the rhymes came out
He boiled his ink to vapour
And gave each word a clout
Each verse was then profoundly
Assaulted and then raped
Then whipped and beaten soundly
And none had e'er escaped
He never got work published
His rhymes were just enslaved
And though his rhymes were rubbished
They never misbehaved !!
The poet ... apoplectic
Has died, they've just revealed
And like an antiseptic
His words have now been healed
His gravestone has no writing
There's just some flowers...draped
To find life more exciting
The words have all escaped