Run out of ways to wax poetic,
Therefore engage this foolish antic.
Beneath the wit – there lies the pun,
And troves of all-amusing fun.
Absence of point is just the ticket
For driving in this silly picket;
For foolishness and flaunting flimsy;
For wallowing in wanton whimsy.
For foibles of this scallywag
Are such of those of any wag:
Perusal of this parody
Discloses it a farce to be!
Not form, not style nor meter-bound,
But varied blend of satire found:
A vichyssoise of rambling rhymes,
A multitude of verbose mimes.
And now, alas, this skit must end,
For rules it can no longer bend.
This pen is spent and now must rest,
For all intent madness to best.