for one consistent thing was William Mc Gonagall famous
his verses rhymed invariably, never mind the scan
and now i think, and say to you, But Amos!
which of us could better such a man?

who of us can now send to the worm farm of poetic history
such a poet as McGonagall, a witer of bland mystery
for within the veins of time and honour speak
of many a heart which would forever feel quite a bit bleak

If McGonagall, bless his golden copperplate hand,
should with his works fly in the dust and sand
into the ashes of incinerated waste
which are condemned to fly through such as your poor taste.

to each their own, and everyone of us indulged
diversity in versity i do indulge
else before us in the swills of time is lost
McGonagall, to what great cultural cost?