The Poem and Albert.

There's a site on the web - you all know it - that's famous for
poems and such.
But once in a while they get writers whose work's.. well, a little too
much.
They eff and they blind like a trooper, to challenge the taste of the
day,
And one such bold poet was Albert. (Let's not give his surname
away.)

Young Albert was known by his teachers for his "poetry", pictures and
all,
And his schoolmates, who queued up to read them on the younger boys'
lavatory wall.
These poems were frequently lurid, mis-spelled and scratched into the
paint.
His latest, with lewd illustrations, had made the school secretary
faint.

Miss Beckinsale, Young Albert's teacher, soom summoned his mum to
attend
She told her about her son's "talents" and how it would all have to
end.
And so, Albert's mum came home smiling, amazed by what teacher had
said.
Her Albert, a "world-famous poet?" (The sarcasm went over her
head.)

She cooed at her mischievous offspring, which fair took the wind from
his sails:
"Bert, why don't you gather these poems, and send them to
ABCtales?"
So Albert typed in all his poems. (The mildest were still quite
obscene.)
And the worst almost melted his keyboard - these never appeared on the
screen!

He waited, and waited, did Albert, but most of his efforts had
gone.
And as for the cherries? Forget it! Instead of a shower, not one.
They popped up, of course, in abundance - for writers with
strange-sounding names
While Albert looked on in amazement. He'd soon had enough of these
games.

He whipped off a withering E-mail to question his lack of success
"Now what's going on?" he demanded. "Those poems were bound to
impress!
And if you don't publish them, pronto, I'll come down and find you,
don't fear.
Stuff my stick with the 'orse's-'ead 'andle straight into the editor's
ear!"

The editor mailed back to "thank" him, but couldn't quite think what to
say
They got some odd stuff, he'd admit it, but Albert's rude poems? No
way!
There wasn't a word to describe them: oh yes, it could well rhyme with
"flap"
Instead of indulging Bert's nonsense, his mother should give him a
slap.

Bert's dreams of becoming world famous were not going to happen, that's
all,
And maybe in future his efforts should remain on the lavatory
wall.
So Albert composed one last poem, unleashed the full force of his
rage
In a stream of unsuitable language that nearly set fire to the
page.

It vanished straight into the ether. Well, what could the editor
do?
The site would have shut within hours if they'd tried to show something
so blue.
At that, Albert got proper blazin', and "Thank you sir, kindly," said
he
"Sit up half the night writing poems, to get naff-all cherries? Not
me!"

(With grateful apologies to Marriot Edgar.)