I can’t write a poem every day, no way! I have things to do I have bills to pay. I’ll starve, I won’t make it down to the shop, To buy food, you know? I’ll be sacked from my job. I’ll be sweaty and dirty unshowered unclean, And I’m sure Geoff will be uncharacteristically mean. He’ll write hundreds of poems, with little more, Than it takes me to write just one metaphor. His similes like noses, poised and ready To detect my stinking prose and depose it With elegant rhyme and wicked enjambment. Damn it Geoff. Why’d I agree to this gambit.