There’s nothing I can say to you,
Though for kindly words I grope.
There’s little anyone can do,
You’re really past all hope.
Don’t write no more, you really shouldn’t,
It’s not your special talent.
At least I really wish you wouldn’t
Insist that I should comment.
I’m well brought up – well, yeah, repressed –
I’d prefer to not be harsh,
But your writing makes me, um, depressed;
I break out in a rash.
Your poems are wooden, your stories suck,
Your essays are simply boring.
And your learned critical remarks
Give rise to instant snoring.
When others with just one are glad,
You shove in three adjectives...
Which wouldn’t really be that bad
If your spelling wasn’t defective.
(Let me guess, you poor sad creature:
Too many students in your class?
Is that why your English teacher
Didn’t whup your arse?)
Your original contributions
Are the commas between the cliches.
Your characters and plots are thin,
As solid as papier-mâché.
The emotions you present as new
We outgrew in our teens.
We paid our debts. You’re overdue.
You write beyond your means.
Probably the most pompous poem we have ever written. But it's not what it sounds like. It's a work in progress, a version of which was written for and read at a Caferati Bombay Read-Meet, where the trigger was “Clichés.” Once we started, it wouldn't stop. :)