Condemned with all who scrawl their thoughts online

Obsessing over words, revising verse,

This love of poetasting is a curse . . .

(no, wait—I think I need to tweak that line).

Composing, thus, my useless universe,

Convinced that golden musings are divine,

I polish leaden verse to make it shine

So proving that bad poetry grows worse.

My muse may well disown me for my crimes,

Fly off and leave me searching for some word,

Abandon me to unpoetic times;

And yet my lyric soul is undeterred.

My own best lines may or may not show it;

Still, I’ll bear that shameful name of Poet.