One budding poet had a knack
That boded more than just a hack:
His metrics were impeccable,
His music sonorous and full,
His sense of rhyming was spot on,
As if led by a deft baton.
Predictably, he did aspire
To penning memorable satire,
To skewering dullness, folly, vice
In hopes his verses might entice
At least a few down Wisdom’s road
Where Reason, Care and Kindness strode.
But at the last he sadly found
That satire was itself unsound,
For all its savvy, wit and charm,
That making fun itself caused harm.