Forty Fourty Vision
I’m confused and I’m quite flabbergasted
At the punctuatión of a friend;
His grammatical messes;
Through etymological guesses
And the poetic text he will bend.
As I said, he’ll destroy all the meaning
Of a verse, for a rhyme at the end;
Like a German or Kraut,
He’ll arse it about
So the verb to the end he will send.
Now in this inaccurate trash can,
He describes to the world, as his mind
“Grammar rules aren’t heeded;
“Spelling’s not needed.
“Just use any old word that you find”
His philosophy just makes me shudder
I implore, gentle reader, eschew
His cavalier chatter
That “Grammar don’t matter”
And “Use any old word. That’ll do”.
The homophone was surely conceivéd
With this singular person in mind.
Whether conscious or not,
This outrageous clot
Inserts any similar word that he’ll find
So regardless of syntax or spelling
Regardless of meaning or gist
Regardless of whether
Whether, weather or wether
A ram without balls in a storm would feel pissed
Last week this chap sent me a message
Regarding a certain amount
And a thought he had had;
And I felt very bad
I thought, “Why ask him to spell? …He can’t count.
The crux of the matter was forty
Alas fourty, he’d written, poor fool
He mixed fought, thought and fort,
And of course, Cockney fought
Till I fought ‘e should go back to school