O POETRY HOW I HATE THEE (as Starmist)

O poetry, O foul beast, how much thou waste mine time
Thou makest me sweat, thou makest me bleed, for I so hate to rhyme
But why am I now writing such deplorable of prose?
Why that, my friends, is quite as plain as blackheads on your nose.
Though I hate thee, O poetry, you must have quite some power.
For when I'm done this bull refuse, I'll kill within the hour.