The Epic Quest Of Our Own Don Keyhole T---, Knight Errant And Arrant, Trumpeted BlowHard

He thought his lines' traversed attenuation
proved that he could write licit poetry;
as long as he found post participation,
his verse would tilt like fierce knight-errantry.
The windmills that he tilted at, to pass
them, knocked him off his hobby horse's ass.
But finding insufficent adulation,
he challenged those who wrote superior
poems (when compared to his inferior
pastiches); sensing failure and rejection,
he dove under a nonchalant deflection,
blaming---when caught in any confrontation---
his errors on lacked cowsledge edgycation,
His numerous gaffaws rose to despoil
and crease his armor made of cheap tinfoil:
so that the platitudes he likes to speak
sounds like a frog's croak or a stiff joint's creak,
out of that gap beneath his warted beak.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

Has to be a fiction, no one can be that weird.  Also a parody of Cervante's piqaresque hero, also a fictive construct.

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