This poem was originally a sarcastic commentary on some of my friends' verse (which in fairness wasn't all that bad).

But, hey, drivel is one of those universal themes that everyone is familiar with. I'm sure Shakespeare must have had something to say about it.

Drivel

I went and wrote some drivel—
It seemed the thing to do,
For all the folks around me
Were writing drivel too.

I didn't really say much;
I couldn't see the need,
But what I said, I said with style
And flair and grace and speed.

It was devoid of meaning.
I made quite sure of that
By adding lots of waffle,
And talking through my hat.

It had a happy ending,
For those who courage lack,
But for the rest who like to cry,
A sad one on the back.

I signed it with a flourish,
And titled it up top,
But though I though I'd finished it,
The drivel wouldn't stop.

With postscripts and appendices,
Addenda by the score,
I let the flippant flood fly forth
And flow upon the floor.

I signed it with a flourish,
And titled it up top,
But though I thought IÕd finished it,
The drivel wouldnÕt stop.

In quality and quantity,
My drivel was the best,
But now I wasn't satisfied,
I wanted it suppressed.

At 3 a.m. I called a halt
And from fatigue I dropped,
In any case I'd made my mark:
My lecturers I'd topped.

So henceforth I'll be careful
Lest I begin again
To spew out hills of drivel,
and overheat my pen.

PS. (The sad ending.)
He fell back to the ground and died.
His legs stuck in the air.
And when at last his feet came down,
They buried him right there.