The average publisher’s humour list is like tourists flying coach,
And lacks, perhaps, the subtlety of my more whimsical approach,
And while I fashion poems in the small hours of the night,
A thousand erstwhile humorists conjecture on the variants of shite.
And what with broad-stoke parodies of the latest children’s books,
I fear my humble poems will be left without a look,
So this poet takes his closing bow and exits from the stage,
For he very much regrets that he will never see the page.