Ceci n'est pas la Poèsie

Ten minutes of half-hearted effort
brings you yet another gem:
ten seconds of scant attention
are wasted on all of them.
Five minutes of murdering metre
and still it doesn't scan:
five seconds of cheap allusions
and similes tired and wan.
A minute's minute modicum
of talent and scribbler's flair,
a second of second-rate talent
to crystallize foetid hot air.