the quality of quantity is unmerciful, prodigious production of wine improperly aged, pours soiled drops spilled without craft, care or taste, poured too quick to be nothing more than less than waste
born in reckless unrestrained than every thought a golden gift, bestowed upon the masses, droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains, gives no moisture sustenance to the world, only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes
blesses none but the one who cannot but cant, measures his own demeanor in the mirror, unsuspecting the mirror mirrors the ides of ego, seeds of self destruction
the throned monarch who giveth but does not take, thinking the king he is, his own best, even better than his creator and tho he carvo's his retno critiques upon the brows of his subjects, he cares not, for it boring brings more mastubatory page views his addition of success, his edition of self congratulatory of writs and snits, which adds up to a whole lot of ****
but you may put you pen down now, for the world needs only need one poet, and it ain't me, and it certainly ain't you