(a real-life email duel with a poet-who-shall-remain-nameless)
Tuesday
The gastrointenstinal tract
Is the greatest yawn since Rome was sacked.
It’s simply not funny
If a poo’s thick or runny,
It’s a bore as a matter of fact!
Wednesday
The GI tract is only a part
Of a system whose primary art
is to edify boys
with the eloquent noise
of a seismic grandiloquent flatulation.
You started it.
Thursday
The best G.I. doctors all pass
At the top of their medical class
They expertly seek
Every bubble and squeak
That proceeds from our head and our bottom.
Back atcha. This is war.
Friday
As a theme the GI tract is fit
for treatment by poetic wit
But the sum of it all
Is a mountain that’s tall
And composed almost solely of nonsense.
I rest my case.
Saturday
When dueling rhyme-writers scrap
They do well to steer clear of the trap
Of waxing ironic
On matters colonic
For such writing’s invariably rubbish.
Tag
And here, both poets finally lost the will to go on…
Penguin Poems 