Cunthonian

Your style seeps with slime
you know the sort
that life-giving slime
ejaculated too often in haste
just like your style:
sporadic, sometimes forceful
sometimes fast then slow
where does the rythmn go?

You squirt it out
both words and fluid
but the irony is
my dear sinful druid
yours has a flow
why none to show
and upon to grow

Why where's the beat
to support love's heat
describing your 'meat'
such an ardous feat
and without flow the
poem's not complete

What do you have to say?
to make argument sway
in your favour today
or are you naught but spray?