He pilfered her poems, he stole all her prose,
Absconded with meter and rhyme:
With never an ode of his own to compose,
He took to the plagiarist's crime.
He twisted the syllables, wrenched every word --
How barbarous was his technique!
A more brutish din you never have heard.
Such havoc the snatcher would wreak!
He'd say it in Portuguese, then Double Dutch,
And maybe a soupçon of French:
He'd stand on a soapbox in big city squares
Disturbing the drunk on the bench.
His phrases were noisy: a big pile of books
That loudestly falls to the floor.
His poems all merited murderous looks
And catcalls of "Plagiarist! Boor!"
But one happy day, this most burglarish bard
Received a felicitous turn:
He left all his poems heaped in the backyard
With the leaves he intended to burn.
The vowels and consonants went up in smoke;
His lyrics became quite extinct.
A quite fitting fate for this silly old bloke
Who stealed what his betters had thinked!