Lines upon the suspension, for reasons astrological, mechanical, and dietary, of the ‘Could Be Verse’ franchise

Of cats and farting cows I wrote, of priests au naturel,
of Russian men with genitals ignited:
Self-portraits of a sort, perhaps. Or omens of mental collapse?
Sweet readership, I trust you were delighted.

But readership, dear readership, it’s time I was away,
For Heaven knows there’s no more verse left in me.
My rhymes are done, my meter’s run, and though there’s more to say,
Pat D. is here — and I must let him bin me.