I’m running out of poetry, my poems seem so few

Some people churn out bucket loads – have they nothing else to do?

I’ll need to pull my finger out to keep up with the herd

Or exploit illegal immigrants and pay them by the word.

- Now there’s a plan that might succeed – I’m sure it’s not a crime,

I’ll set up a production line! - the Henry Ford of rhyme.

I’ll harvest creativity and reap poetic leanings

And naturally I’ll dock their wage for smut or double meanings.

The Poles can do the metaphors, Albanians the meter,

Somalians can fix the rhymes and make the scansion neater.

Of course I’ll be a kindly boss - they’ll sing my praise in chorus.

I’ll give them bread and water too and lend them my Thesaurus.

If I burst in unexpectedly and demand a witty quip

they’ll buckle down quite happily - I wouldn’t need my whip.

They’ll need to churn out 10 a day before they go to bed

and if this target isn’t met, their children won’t be fed.

Then soon I’ll be ubiquitous, my verses famed all over

despite obscure references to Lodz and Czestochowa.