McGonagall's form is fairest of them all
each limping patterned line do I recall
gives rhythm a new form, or so it is well purported
and consequently I say - let sonnets be aborted!

for in a thumped and regular patterned verse
of McGonagall's, all else is truly worse
like a three legged race on crutches, he doth speak
and I adoring, gaze at his poetic feet, at the end of the week.

So ye McGonagall fans, come all and one
to triumph in the brave Canadian sun
so that McGonagall himself shall never die
but posthumously decompose, in fame, let all comply.