Go Ode Yourself

Let's see if I have this correctly. The last post crafted up by the Diabolical Genius sounded something a little, a little something, almost exactamentally, close to word-for-word, and something a lot like this. It reads similarly to this:

Where, O where, has my little Rich gone,
Where, O where, can he be,
Not in the parlor, not on the lawn,
Not in the loo to wee.
Poor Richard does not an almanac write,
Young Dick, he nevermore posts,
No clacking of keys and no scrawl of the pen.
The virus has swallowed his byte,
The Trojan has given the Realm up to ghosts,
But the worm cannot shut up ol’ Ken.

Is anyone else catching the irony here? "Irony" is a big word and sometimes misunderstood. Let me e'splain. By my count, since this frolicking, self-serving little poetic injustice here, sixteen posts, including this one, have been penned by the the selfsame victim of this verse. The sum total written at the hand of the author of this "Ode to a Madman" post is a grand, whopping total of negative one (plus one). Zero.

Again, back to the irony. The DG scribes: But the worm cannot shut up ol' Ken.

Apparently, something other than a worm has busted ol' Ken in the proverbial chops. And just on a little bit different tack, all the "Young Dick", "wee" and "Trojan" references...

...please Kenneth. This is a family blog. And we're children's book writers.

Back on point, where is this Lord-O'-Limerick now? Where can be found the Viceroy of Verse? The Sultan of the Sonnet? Or should I say, the Queen of the Quatraine?

Anyhow, I love the irony. Don't you?