Poetry Bloodbath

...

John Milton’s lying there
Down in the gutter dead
And Wordsworth’s out the back
With a bullet in the head.

Here’s the electric port
Where Lord Byron stuck his cock
He smiled with purest ecstasy
Then was sizzled by the shock. 

John Donne was busy sermonizing 
When he met his final end
A diseasèd flea had pricked 'im
With its poison-onous pen.

Miss Emily D was high
On the Amherst green one day
When a Umass frat-house jerk
Tried to roll her in the hay.

She kicked him in the balls 
And ripped his arm clear off 
Next day she died in bed 
Having caught a mild cough. 

Walt Whitman with his fists
Was called the Brooklyn brawler
He drowned in Hudson Bay
His ferry smashed by a trawler. 

Bob Frost was riding birches
You’ll be unsurprised to hear
He flung himself out way too high
While shouting out “no fear!”

Eliot’s cranium cracked
'Gainst Pound's head with a thud.
Bob Dylan broke his leg
After slipping in the blood.

And watching all this from his desk,
Young Geoffrey Chaucer sat amused.
He dipped his quill into his ink
And said “these newbies are confused.”

---

See also: Three Massachusetts Limericks.