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Poem

An ogre is seldom awakened by poetic lines
but he shakes his fists trying to slander others.
I laugh at his desperate attempts at writing.
Delighting in his flawed efforts at metaphors.

On all fours this ogre creeps around like a spider
Oh what distorted webs he dares to weave...
when he deceives those who do not know
his penchant for whining and absurd cries of wolf.

He aspires to climb to the peak of a mountain
but fails miserably with each witless haiku.
Do not fear in the false bravado of the daft beast,
but feast on his raves as he digs his own grave.

Imagery is lost among his gibberish blabber...
a rather nondescript description of such bluster.
His script is not clever, thought he thinks it is so.
He doesn't scare me or those who know... whatever

Inanity is the work of such a bootlicking fool...
a tool who yammers thinking he impresses others,
but a jester dances for those who seek a false throne.
Does that ring with a piffle of drivel to anyone but me?

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