Tongue-in-cheek self-critique

This is hopeless.
This so-called poem  
Is making me gag.  
Dead on arrival  
Complete with toe tag.  
See what happens when  
You try to write dopeless?  
  
The muse, as you can see,  
Has not yet come,  
Nor are you, with your lack of talent,  
Likely to be  
Or not to be clever  
On your own.  
Who cares, dude?  
You wanna get sued?  
Your raggedy-ass rhyme  
Is, to be blunt, a crime.  
Whatever.  
   
You have not sacrificed enough.  
You have made the bed,  
Washed dishes,  
Vacuumed,  
Repented of this sin, that.  
All this and more    
Has gone to your head  
And you call that sacrifice?  
Nay, ‘twill not suffice.  
Your o’erweening guff,  
Sadly, is not enough  
To still your raucous tongue.  
   
This first rough draft  
Is, to be kind, daft dung.  
Are you out of your mind?  
Put that in your hat  
And smoke it.  
Or, better yet, your pipe  
And toke it.  
   
This is obviously not a poem.  
These are words with stubby wings,  
Atavistic, devolved, obscene things,  
An Icarus with leaden words,  
Not to mention plageristic blurbs.  
Mumble, grumble, stumble, tumble—  
See? See how you fumble?  
You are no Icarus!  
You are a flightless bee, a bumble-ing  
Bicarus.  
   
Stop! You’re making me  
Sicarus.  
   
No songs will leap forth  
So stop complaining.  
Quote Polonius as he’s mansplaining:  
Stay awhile, Madam.  
I will be…feckless, reckless,  
Hiding behind the curtain,  
Lose my head and be neckless  
For certain.  
Cast pearls before swine  
From a purloined necklace.  
An  anachronistic trainwreckless.  
   
When the words will not come  
Pout, blame,  
Sit in a corner  
Suck your thumb  
Be mad as hell,  
Struck dumb  
With rage  
But whatever you do  
Do not turn the page  
And get on with it, bro.  
Admit that it’s bad sith git-go.  
   
In the room the wimmens  
Come and go  
Talking of Don Draper  
Romancing Progressive Flo.  
   
No! You are not Dense Hammlet  
Nor are meant to be, forsooth,  
Just a wannabe scribbler  
A truthtelling fibbler  
On the roof  
Seeking the comely wench    
Or, in your case, crescent wrench    
Of poetry.  
   
Which obviously ain’t gonna happen  
So you might as well just snappen  
Out of it,  
Pout a bit,  
And…  
QUIT.