I think my rhymer

Was set with a timer,

At 23 and a half.

And the rhythm-ist-ick thingy,

Has busted a springy,

As I cackle pentameter laugh.

 

I have verse laced with vocab,

That could send me to rehab,

Like last year—and the year before.

And I’ve eaten so much;

Grazed a ten-hour lunch!

I don’t think I can fit through the door.

 

But that doesn’t matter—

Braindead or fatter—

There’s only one cure for this Peep.

Nonet for the win,

Be it post it or pin,

I’ve gotta catch me some sleep!