Inkwell of Irony: A Poet’s Guide to Surviving the Circus of Sincerity:

We are court jesters with quills for swords,

Draped in sonnets, crowned with oxymorons,

We juggle metaphors on a tightrope of pride,

While critics below toss tomatoes of scorn.

Our ink bleeds “truth” in parentheses,

A wink to the crowd—we’re all frauds here.

We scribble odes to kaleidoscope skies,

Then sell them as maps for the lost and unclear.

The moon’s just a cliché, but she still pays the bills,

So we drown her in “whispers of dawn’s fragile breath.”

Love? A recycled trope, yet we auction its thrills,

In couplets that rhyme soul with cinnamon death.

Oh, we’re prophets of pixels, priests of pretension,

Crafting haikus dipped in artisanal gold.

We’ll satire the rich (but keep their attention),

Then pen think-pieces on selling your sold.

So let’s toast to the fools—both the writers and read—

Who dance in this masquerade, earnest yet sly.

For the world’s a bad joke, but we’ll parse it with greed,

And laugh loudest knowing we’re the punchline.