In Defence of Mediocrity

In Defence of Mediocrity

Any fool can rhyme:
'Ne'er cast a clout till May be out.'
That's one everybody knows.
And without the shadow of a doubt,
it's naff; a very mediocre rhyme.
Whoever heard of a bloody clout?

It's like that stitch in time saves eight one.
Or was it nine?
And when you consider how much of this sort of
memorable stuff like this there is about,
you'd think a just society of poets, like,
would have the courtesy, or sense,
to call a spade a spade, sort of.
You know, stand up and curse Nature's niggardliness,
misdirected largesse, or downright carelessness,
in sorting out my genes.

Oh, in some far-off longed for poet's land,
A nice kind of ? sort of?
enlightened mediocracy, like,
lyrics like mine would
ring and ring and ring
and ring
and ring
and ring.
And it'd be nice to be called mediocre,
just about the nicest possible kind of sort of thing, really.