Ask a goblin, ask a ghost,
And you’ll find they love to boast
About what it is they do most with their time.
They may say hiccupping for hours
Or maybe trampling on your flowers,
But really, all their power lies in rhyme.
It could be Sonnet Number Six
Or a limerick about Styx
Or most often just a random mix of styles.
Form and meter do not matter;
They’ll make it longer, shorter, fatter,
And the iambs they will scatter round for miles.
As for subjects, they do more
Than just love and trees and war,
For they feel these things are boring bits of tripe.
Instead they write about tea pots,
Scarves and slime and snouts and spots
And pineapples, both rotten and unripe.
Now I feel that I should mention
They do all this with intention.
What exactly are their inventions meant
For? They write to hopefully engage
A sense of chaos and enrage
Those of nongoblinical persuasion or descent.
They tweak the org’nization
And poetic combination
To cause maximum frustration and distress.
Chaotic thirst cannot be sated
Till they’re sure that they’ve created
Torn apart and fumigated,
Schemed and planned and orchestrated mess.