The Trolls and Nonsense They Herald

 (to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald")

A poster smiles broad, he’s not penitent, our clown
Has a big head, we know he’s a loony
He posts on a thread, somethin’ weird in his head
When he lets loose loud language so loopy

Vents a load of ire or chintzy crude comments so poor
Tis the troller who heralds lame ditty
No good quip will do when the brain cells are few
When a shallow ol’ feller writes surly.

Real name he will hide in a bad nom de plume line
Then attack and bad shrill will be dropped in
From a third grader’s tome, or a bitter old boast
Sends a skewed and rude caption sad reasoned

Exuding blue spurns or a couple of ‘f’ terms
Screams a troll heaving words sans a meanin’
At readers he’ll bite in nonsensical vein
“Let it be,” I say, “windbag’s a tweakin’.”

Now who would aspire, write those fictions so foul?
Maybe knave whose cortex is wanin’
And think of things rude then on forums chew through
Feeble kitsch of small timber unpleasin’

There’s those irate, or them taunters who will bait
Off the rails do those senders go speedin’
So after much thought, here’s description wrought
And my take on those bag o’wind demons

When racist types rain, their bold dreck they invect grievin’
“A-holes go back where you came from.”
No sense have they, friend, neuron’s pathways are dim, simply
Venom that’s no good for no one.

The cocky mired whims, those be ego bearin’ men
With unhip quip untrue, they bleat feral
And never you’re right when that brute’s about to write
Just a troll with some nonsense he heralds.

One other grieves, goads, on a tangent, he goes
Manic raves makin’ mountains of molehills
The dramas he plays, they’re stashed deep within brain
No one knows what schemes foment his ill will

There’s those who play rough, and they’re likely small sized
There’s those who will bad mouth your mother
And more that demean, but the worst ones I deem
Are the tribes when election time smothers

Their flippant flings, inferior things
Tired tunes fill their self-righteous mentions
Not hesitant, these, sneak attack then flee
The ‘high minds’ are vain, sad infections

Their barking it grows stuff bacterial
They shout what their party does banter
And their sanity boats sail past reality’s known coast
Setting sail with November’s contenders.

There’s simple rule, all, has import I’d say
Keep it civilized, angels and heathens
If bile filled mind sends inflamed unrefined lines
Such speech reeks of the madness one's breathin’.

This tirade’s now done, want some sensible talk now
Earth’s a big place, there’ll always be looneys
Superior, they’ll feel, ne’er a thought that appeals
When they wail it’s just blather filled hooey.