In a land up north, where the winds do howl,
There lived a lad named George Dunce, a scowl
Upon his face, a poet he did claim,
Yet his words lacked grace, and stagnated in shame.

With pen in hand, he tried to compose,
Yet his thoughts, like jumbled thread, seemed to oppose
The rhythm and rhyme, all lost in a haze,
Incompetence as a poet defined his days.

Oh George Dunce, a Canuck with dreams,
Yet his verses seemed no more than broken seams,
His metaphors, a tangled web untold,
Leaving readers bewildered, in stories cold.

In every line, a petty little offense,
For George Dunce possessed an air of pretense,
A cankerous soul, fueled by misplaced pride,
His words empty vessels, with nothing to confide.

His father, strict and stern, taught discipline's way,
Spanked young George each night, in hopes he'd obey,
But punishment alone could not shape his mind,
For George Dunce's ineptitude was one of its own kind.

So he remained, a poet of little worth,
As the world moved on, leaving him in dearth,
A canuck, yes, but literary grace he lacked,
A tale of confusion and stanzas that sacked.

Let his plight be a lesson, to all those who dare,
To weave words together, with art and care,
For poetry's essence, it can't be forced or bent,
Or else, like George Dunce, your verse you'll lament.

On Tuesday, August 29, 2023 at 12:04:15 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> In a land up north, where the winds do howl,
> There lived a lad named George Dunce, a scowl
> Upon his face, a poet he did claim,
> Yet his words lacked grace, and stagnated in shame.
>
> With pen in hand, he tried to compose,
> Yet his thoughts, like jumbled thread, seemed to oppose
> The rhythm and rhyme, all lost in a haze,
> Incompetence as a poet defined his days.
>
> Oh George Dunce, a Canuck with dreams,
> Yet his verses seemed no more than broken seams,
> His metaphors, a tangled web untold,
> Leaving readers bewildered, in stories cold.
>
> In every line, a petty little offense,
> For George Dunce possessed an air of pretense,
> A cankerous soul, fueled by misplaced pride,
> His words empty vessels, with nothing to confide.
>
> His father, strict and stern, taught discipline's way,
> Spanked young George each night, in hopes he'd obey,
> But punishment alone could not shape his mind,
> For George Dunce's ineptitude was one of its own kind.
>
> So he remained, a poet of little worth,
> As the world moved on, leaving him in dearth,
> A canuck, yes, but literary grace he lacked,
> A tale of confusion and stanzas that sacked.
>
> Let his plight be a lesson, to all those who dare,
> To weave words together, with art and care,
> For poetry's essence, it can't be forced or bent,
> Or else, like George Dunce, your verse you'll lament.

Lo7!! May the Jordies be appalled!

On Tuesday, 29 August 2023 at 13:15:21 UTC-4, Ash Wurthing wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 29, 2023 at 12:04:15 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> > In a land up north, where the winds do howl,
> > There lived a lad named George Dunce, a scowl
> > Upon his face, a poet he did claim,
> > Yet his words lacked grace, and stagnated in shame.
> >
> > With pen in hand, he tried to compose,
> > Yet his thoughts, like jumbled thread, seemed to oppose
> > The rhythm and rhyme, all lost in a haze,
> > Incompetence as a poet defined his days.
> >
> > Oh George Dunce, a Canuck with dreams,
> > Yet his verses seemed no more than broken seams,
> > His metaphors, a tangled web untold,
> > Leaving readers bewildered, in stories cold.
> >
> > In every line, a petty little offense,
> > For George Dunce possessed an air of pretense,
> > A cankerous soul, fueled by misplaced pride,
> > His words empty vessels, with nothing to confide.
> >
> > His father, strict and stern, taught discipline's way,
> > Spanked young George each night, in hopes he'd obey,
> > But punishment alone could not shape his mind,
> > For George Dunce's ineptitude was one of its own kind.
> >
> > So he remained, a poet of little worth,
> > As the world moved on, leaving him in dearth,
> > A canuck, yes, but literary grace he lacked,
> > A tale of confusion and stanzas that sacked.
> >
> > Let his plight be a lesson, to all those who dare,
> > To weave words together, with art and care,
> > For poetry's essence, it can't be forced or bent,
> > Or else, like George Dunce, your verse you'll lament.
> Lo7!! May the Jordies be appalled!

I’M SURE THAT HE’LL BE GOBSTRUCK!!!!
BLESS HIS HEART ❤️