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Poem

No comfort for the stickler, sticking literary fixtures depicting conflicting inklings to their minds as perfect pictures.
With one stroke of my pen the standards rose again and damned be lesser men. 
As the pros of prose impose and profess, chaos needs redress. 
For I, who's distress you must address, now cower and cleanse this mess, confess my prowess only serves to impress all reason to, "stop the press". 
Anachronistic the measure of their metric, imperialistic so the eccentric can spiral in tantric concentric circlejerks. 
Central to themselves, it works. 
The stench of sh!t, a rose by any other name, smeared with effluent smirks. 
With all due respect you may cling to the historic. 
If you wish to press/play, I will lay waste. 
I'm not here to copy/paste. 
The past won't be replaced, though clearly trampled and retraced. 
Finding you're fittingly faced with chagrin laden grimace feeding bitter distaste. 
Thou is to doth o'er and o'er, as men of the cloth in unrestrained glory. 
Touting the gospel loudly and poorly, wholly unaware it's a fairytale story.

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