I penned a rhyme I thought sublime. Rejection slips came in no time.
My efforts were described as dank. One critic even said it stank.

I penned once more, said t'was mine own. I lied ( 'cuz it was just on loan).
But still they yelled, they called it crud, and threw me down into the mud,
besmirched my kin, maligned my brain.
My urge to write begin to wane, so expertise I had to feign.

I asked the Bard to help me out (He is the best, there is not doubt.)
Soon critic fools with ardor clapped, my new skill held their focus rapt.
Their ardent praise doth gave me hope.They knew me not from bygone dope.
And now my words they supplicate, they know not I equivocate.
With each new rhyme they swoon the more, and say, "Have we not met before?"
Who censured then, now grants each wish, whether wine or fowl or fish,
they ask me in to see their place, are wont to kiss my hands, my face.

I think, "How would the Bard reply?" Then rack my brain and search the sky,
for now I've grown to be so sly, on others I must not rely.
My mind's a'spin, my thoughts doth race. They pucker up, reach to embrace,
I slip their grasp, avert my face, and say with perfect civil grace,
"Tis true, "I'm ere the one you knew. For you the other end will do."