When your crooked quill goes broke and dry, on IV drugs you’re doped and high, it seems to be as we surmise, the dullards, love to plagiarise
When your words just cease and rest in peace, and all the net is yours to fleece, by golly, who recalls great bards long dead, so what the hell, just go ahead!
You pluck and pinch where greatness lies and steal the Ray's from Plath's sunrise, you filch great quotes to save the day and even dress like Hemingway
And lo behold let words be born, upon your page to leer in scorn, at fools who always come your way, to kiss your a*s in fervent sway
So like a dog upon a bone, you claim the words as all your own, just laugh at them from hidden shade, at all the fools that you have made
They are all neanderthalic buffoons and don't you know it!
Bowing down in homage to this plagiarising poet!