The Worst Poem Ever Written

The worst poem ever written,
was penned by Elliot Slate.
Twas like a sandwich best not bitten,
for when swallowed your stomach will hate.

The words made most children cry,
and old ladies shake their heads.
It begged the question, "why?",
and sent the strong to their sick beds.

Readers would sputter and spew,
as they struggled with the rhyme.
It was a poem for very few,
like the tallest mountain to climb.

The rhythm started and stopped,
Like an old farm truck indeed.
The meter skipped and hopped,
down the right path it did not lead.

Each stanza was entirely unrelated,
to the next smudge on the page.
Elliots writing undulated,
And filled the town with rage.

The Sheriff was called to find him.
They searched all day until late.
They found him in the school gym,
they were sure it was Mr. Slate.

They took him down to the station,
and questioned, "why so foul"?
He wasn't giving information,
He was as stoic as an owl.

They tossed him in the clink,
for public nuisance or inciting riot.
Which gave him time to think,
"It's so good, why would I deny it?"

But the people kept reading his work,
as he sat, cooling his heel.
On his face he wore a smirk,
He liked the evening meal.

When taken to the magistrate,
Who slapped his gavel with glee.
He declared, "I am the honorable James Slate.
I rule my brother goes free."

The town exploded with fury.
Carts burned and horses ran the streets.
Ashes flickered down in a flurry,
butchers refused to slice their meats.

Then Elliot took his place in the square,
and recited his poem once more.
The people stopped to stare,
and considered settling their score.

But as he read each line,
some people started to smile.
Things actually sounded just fine.
Things didn't seem so vile.

By the end the Village was calm.
The last flame flickered and died.
The words were like a balm.
No one knew why they had cried.

Quiet applause began in the crowd,
as they realized how wrong they had been.
As the applause now grew loud,
Elliot smiled again.

"I'm sorry for the trouble it caused,
but I'm glad you gave it some time."
Then Mr. Slate long paused,
"You see it is difficult to rhyme".

The mob erupted with endless joy.
They declared Elliot great.
If you wonder if it was all a ploy,
you'll have to seek out Elliot Slate.