Sorry, Tolkien...
... but for some reason Anne Rice=Earendil tonight.


Anne Rice needs no editor
Of her the Wankers sadly sing
The one whose words are large and posh
Whose sentences are frightening.

She wrote a world of vampires gay
Whose parts were dead, though nicely hung
From Egypt up to New Orleans
Through centuries her stories swung.

The first, it's said, were edited
With grammar good and spelling fine
The reader's eye could find no fault
T'was smooth, like drinking finest wine.

But lo, the Ego did appear
The editors, outcast were they
The reader's eye began to trip
to stumble, glaze and turn away.

And into darkness fell her fans
In Boredor, where the... WTF? Hang on. I'm in the wrong poem, sorry.

'Tis said she also writes Teh Sex
And badly, too, by all accounts
With damsels panting, crying "More!"
And writhing 'neath their heaving mounts.

But now she Wanketh hot and grim
And burneth furious like fire
Critics, though they honest be
Are naught but fuel to stoke her ire.

'Tis sad to see, this writer's fall
The promise that did start so well
For now the Ego, growing large
Has trapped her in an angry Hell.

Forever still a writer of
A paragraph that has no end
A shining star of primo wank
The Flameifer that doth offend!


Anne, you're inspiring.