The poet who finds that their fancy’s endeared
By ghosts, ghouls and ghoblins – in short, by the weird,
Will soon, to their shame, be addressing their Muse
In terms that no courteous poet should use.
Because, after all, it is only a fool who
Would try to end lines with a word like Cthulhu,
And what kind of amateur scribbler could toss off
A half-decent rhyme for His cousin Yog-Sothoth.
A warbler who wishes their work to be famous
Is probably wise to avoid words like ‘squamous’
And other descriptors of creatures with phallic
Appendages sheathed in a swathe of italic.
To fit Nyarlathotep into your meter
Is possible, making your pantheon completer,
But writers whose pride is in rhyming that’s rigorous
Had better forget about using Shub-Niggurath.
It isn’t just Arkham; the fan of Hyboria
Is likely to learn that their verses are sorrier
From having to cope with Cimmeria and Stygia
And black oozing toad-gods with names even squidgier.
And if you make Averoigne part of your scene
You’re soon going to wish that you never had been
So rash as to court the poetical doom
That hovers round words like Zothique and Vulthoom.
The cure for this lexicographical curse
Is clearly to give up and write in free verse -
A sensible course, but when all’s said and done
It has its own drawback: it just isn’t fun.