This Year, I think, belongs to Swift,
He'll lose, though, if you catch my drift.

As when Achilles Hector's Corpse degrades,
So may Affliction come to you as CancerAIDS.

'Tis true, Sir Ridley Scott's artistic Sense,
Which once was sharp, is now but dull and dense:
My Jab was then unwonted toward this Group,
Which might, for all I know, have Genius in its Troop.
Next time, I'll strive to be more relevant,
Which any self-respecting Pen doth want.

That Understanding is what Parents lack,
Is Truth that stands against whate'er Attack.

On this fair site no better name I've seen—
Except for all the better ones, I mean.

First to th'Endeavour rarely wins the Day.
This stoppeth not the Dull, who try their Way,
And fail, as is their Wont, as greater Minds
Sail by their Course before much better Winds.

By 'can produce' I meant 'produceth'.
Poor Meter any Line reduceth,
And worse, Rime Riche, that witless Whore,
Which speaketh of Mind's Winter-Hoar.

O Kleist, may Wit for you ne'er rest!
At Times we find a master-Jest!

Profane, all Euphemisms for the Breast,
Which mocks Locutions for its fleshy Crest.
How can Man so dissemble when he sees
Such Treasures as proud Woman's Mammaries?

Too often great Directors snatch th'Applause
Of Those which strain to loose Themselves from Bras.

Tarkovsky's quondam AD makes no Sense:
If such thou searchest for, then hie thee hence.
From varied Sources takes he varied Parts,
Stealing their Fury, making still their Hearts.
A Troll he is, terrible to behold,
But sifting through his Trash can produce Gold.