Something a little different (reading the news all the time is getting depressing):
To you, dear Byron, yes, to you I sing,
And heap upon you all the praise you're due,
Your dedication rare was quite the thing,
When that great epic Don was penned by you:
Though oft your metre left my head aching,
And your abuse of rhyme has made me blue.
But nonetheless I was in truth amused,
Despite the poetry that you've abused.
Although your satire proved to be mighty,
I wish you'd not made quite so good a jape,
For, sooth, in places, the poem hurts me,
As cry I must at how you rhythm rape.
(For an example, all of you can see
This poem here, where I the bottom scrape:
In mockery of mockery of rhyme,
Although this poem's quite after its time.)
