My rhymes are so fine,
They make your rhymes look like crimes,
Shizzle to the bizzle,

Your sonnets are sucky,
Your ballades are bust,
Every time you try prose,
One my by brain cells erupts,

It's like a vacuum,
Of creative malfuction,
Every time I click 'Creative Arts',
My ass starts spe-lunkin',

But now I'm out of rhymes,
This irony is over,
So get the hell out of my thread,
You poser.

LAME. Check illwillpress.com for the REAL poetry shizzat.

I so agree with Ye of Little Faith on this one.

And if this is a response to my poem, dude....life. get one. like now. okay? okay.

There once was man named Guido.
Who had feet that smelled of cheetos
Though a man of large size,
He had trouble to rise
With such a small libido.



My limerick poem was next
But still I'm really quite vexed
He said I would die
But still I'm alive
He must be having too little sex.

One day Guido started to post,
A flame on poems; but he would soon get the roast.
For the comedian tried his hand at a rhyme,
But it wasn't funny, not this time.

For his "mad rhymes" were quite lame,
And Erion got the first flame.
Next Sobran tells him to get a life,
And Ialie's limerick adds to the strife.

Now why did I write this poem, you might say?
I'm ing bored out of my mind, to my dismay.
Cause your poem is really as funny as rabid dogs,
The moral of the story? Stick to writing logs.

Nothing rhymed with logs .

I don't know whether to give the medal to Ialie or Maedhros.

I think Maedhros wins that one.

Yeah, I guess so. Ialie gets a gold star for effort.

Ya'll are great