I'm gonna do these until I run out of inspiration.
::whips out the re-tooled nursery rhymes::

As we walked past the old oak tree,
We saw a Child's book of poetry,
One opened it up and read aloud,
How many bad poems were shared by the crowd?
One that was painful,
Two that were trite,
Three that waxed lyrical,
Four that simply bite,
Five that read horribly,
Six that left me cold,
And seven of the poems I wish I'd never been told.