A sesquipedalian uncle of mine
used long words in practically every line.
Iambic pentameters flowed from his pen;
serendipitous phrases in lines up to ten.
When antediluvian failed to fit in,
he peeled a large orange, discarding the skin.
“My polysyllabic muse is on strike,”
he said; or maybe it was something quite like.
On his tombstone it reads in elaborate script,
“Here lies ‘neath the stones of this portentous crypt
a man who would fain have sought fame with his rhyme,
but never got scripts to the printer on time.”
