A poor shoemaker,
Your poetaster
Cobbles together
His language leather,
And tacks with assonant
Rhymes a boot
Or shoe to hide
The naked foot.
A word-a-holic,
He’s never Donne
Or brought to heel,
Won’t hold his tongue.
In leather shawl
He plies his awl
From the eyelets
To the sole,
Supports his art
With arch support,
Fuddling orthopedic experts
With his mythopoeic inserts,
And needs no
To emboss
His logorrhea.
He binds his uppers
To sole and middle
And minds the
Form-and-content riddle:
Horsehide, pigskin,
Limerick, lyric,
Ode, haiku.
A trope-a-dope,
A rhyming fool,
An oxy moron
For barefoot lass
In flowered bonnet
He’ll hammer out
A shoddy sonnet,
With snips and quips
And malaprop mallet,
Punch and pun,
A mulish ballad.
By pinking tool
And metric rule,
He’ll cut a cinquain,
Pump or mule,
Oxford, rondeau,
Brothel creeper,
Triolet, or
Canvas sneaker.
His leather tongue
And welts and vamps
Are held in limp
Iambic clamps,
While base insole
And cheap felt lining
Are sewn and laced
With “hidden meaning,”
Thought clogs
Only he can see
Through painful shanks
Of irony.
A villain elf
A poet lite
A bad trochaic
At best
A doggerel-dactyl
And a pest.
For Englishmen,
A Bertie Wooster,
Or in Germany
A schuster.