Anapestic poetry is trite. Please resubmit in villanelle, or proceed to go gentle into that good night.
Dearest Cassidy, poet on retainer, you're a sight to see kowtowing to the Feigner, the only man with less wire than Joshua Norton, King Pants on fire.
How does it feel to rhyme ash with trash? Are you upset that you missed cash and Bash? Lash crash Nash? Gnash, vash, tash? Memory cache? Sour mash and window sash? Too bad you couldn’t fit, Splash the skin rash in a flash.
Mon Harold, How noble you must be to inspire such devotion from your terracotta army.
Soon you're facade will shatter, down in a clatter, and the world will notice, your magnum opus, censorship and betrayal, the doves dying wails.
We march on your beaches; we'll flood through your streets, saving the hearts and minds, of the oppressed peoples we meet. Like a saving tide, we'll rise, against any and all dictators, stopping all of liberty, freedoms and loves true traitors.
We may not have poets, No Elliots no Sapphos no Sylvia Plaths; but we have the gumption, the gall, and the balls to stand against your fascist wrath.
We are not without pity clemency comfort and sorrow, we'll forgive your pet's manglings, we are after all, the voice of reason and of the people; we only pray that you lay down your false crown today, for we begin the revolution, in earnest, tomorrow.