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