The Shape of Things

Write it! Right, write it right.
Abba, abba, seedy, seedy:
this formal stuff is so rhyme needy.
What I get is simply shite
- scribbled at the speed of write.
Perhaps if I were not so speedy
-or for attention quite so greedy-
my verse would not be so great a fright,
or stain the page with soulless drivel,
cudgelled with massy metaphor
and smashed with sickly simile.
Hear the panicked poetaster snivel
'I am not formal shaping's whore,
a litotic curse on hyperbole!'