We're more than just a little peeved that now we're six feet under
'Anon' the lying little git can steal our hard-earned thunder.
Our forte was the limerick; yet now we find it is
'Anon' who fills anthologies with ones he claims are his.
The serious, the humorous, the rude, the lewd, the odd,
'Anon' lays claim to all of them. 'Anon's a lying sod.
We wrote of sumer cumen in and lhudely singing cuccu.
But no-one signed the parchment. So 'Anon' nicked that one too.
One of us wrote Beowulf, a northern anecdote. It
seems the proofs were left unsigned. 'Anon' now says he wrote it.
We've also written epigrams in every public khazi
from Singapore to Sunningdale and Bognor to Benghazi.
The standard of their sparkling wit caused scholars to report
that Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare must have sat there deep in thought.
We've told St. Peter how 'Anon' steals work from honest scribes.
We've offered him a hook to hold his keys, and other bribes
. . . and promised him the gratitude of poets live and late
if, on the day 'Anon' arrives, he'll shut the Pearly Gate.