A Century of Parody and Imitation

by Unknown

(My wrongs are boiling inside of me.)

So at least all other bards I'll slate

Till no one sells but the Laureate.

(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

I took a beast of a poet's tome

And nailed a cheque, and brought them home;

(My wrongs were howling inside of me.)

And after supper, in lieu of bed,

I wound wet towels round my head.

(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)