He’s like a judge who’s fond of hanging,
Except his simpering, sniping, slanging,
Petty whining, weak haranguing,
Just adds up to Allemanging.
How’s toothless doggerel best described?
With what blunt crayon are inscribed
These weekly lines of sorry tripe
In which old news that’s overripe
Regurgitated once more is
So Allemang can then have his
Last chance to scribble something “funny” —
Labored, painful, wretched, “punny”
Lines he clearly thinks “satirical”
(To think they are’s a goddamn miracle).
But somebody must like this stuff —
Must love this sophomoric fluff —
Or thinks this doggerel’s the way
To make sure little Johnny A.
Remains confined, stays on the leash,
His weekly sub-par Pope pastiche
Ensuring he does not attempt
Reporting, and thus stays exempt
From writing something even worse
Than Saturday’s appalling verse
And now, for abject masochists
A newly pointless book exists
Collecting every crumby poem
Into a single, sorry tome
They’re prizes in a contest you
Could win. (The second prize is two).
If you thought they were painful once,
Reread them and see when a dunce
Like Allemang, that poetaster,
Makes of news and rhyme disaster,
And proves he’s one slack-brained mouth-breather
Poetic justice thus is neither.