I wrote a poem long ago whilst doodling with my pen,
And looking back, it looks as bad today as it did then!
I kept the subject so oblique, nobody understood,
And yet the critics gathered round, pretending that they could.

They marveled at my syntax and my mastery of rhyme;
They Oo'ed and Aah'ed amongst themselves and mumbled, "It's sublime!"
Yet never once did one of them explain what I had said.
They simply told the common folk, "It's way above your head."

They showered me with accolades, with fancy words they praised,
They said, "Such depth of meaning leaves us breathless and amazed!
They said, "This is a masterpiece; this writing is first rate."
"The author should be honored as The Poet Laureate."

But I just laughed at such a fuss, all over gibberish,
And I thought I could write much more to satisfy their wish.
Then conscience asked me, "Is this right? Is this the game you'll play?"
And I have never written more from then until today!

I think there is a moral here, for those who would write verse.
Although you think your work is poor, there's always something worse,
And if your writing doesn't turn out quite the way you planned,
Perhaps they'll call you "Genius" if they can't understand!

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