A failed attempt at poetry

You hate poems with long verses

So obviously squeezed in for the sake of the rhyme,

Or simply for flimsy humour, but you think much worse is

One that ends as if the poet had run out of time.

Rumours abound lately that hovering across the cyberspace,

And at ungodly hours appearing, is a writer of formidable lunacy,

Anon is his name as he blogs without a face,

The garbage that he writes is just about all you can see.

Like, If Shakespeare had been a pugilist,

A pen being mightier than a sword or a glove,

Could he have still written with a clenched fist?

Or would he be knocked-out by now?

See, you're annoyed and hurt, not the least amused,

And well, yes, the only reason why,

The pain, sometimes, is fractionally reduced,

Is because you realise that you're lucky, and it is not a lie,

That most of his readers have died, some instantly others slowly, bored

You are terror-struck and want to survive, so seek mercy at his virtual feet,

As he wickedly continues to type, "Fear no more, I shall save you with my keyboard",

And quietly presses the three magical keys called Ctrl-Alt-Delete.