Lines On A Piss Poor Poet

Worthy of McGonegal, I declare;
How strange to find his talent rare
And long thought happily, finally, dead,
Raising again its cheerful head
To haunt a later, different time
With equal awkwardness of rhyme
And stilted pace; enough, enough!
The world's well-gifted with such stuff.
But let it be, to each man's choosing
To read what he finds most amusing.
And let us also add, I wot,
To not read what amuseth not.

Claracile Fortinez.
Alabaster Poems
Whiteshell-On-Thunk, 1938