A Bad Poem's Sad Lament

Oh why was I born a bad poem! Born self aware and educated. To be cast among poetry fodder, This cruel death I am fated. Oh why couldn't I be written, However atrocious and absurd By a Byron, Keats or Shelley, Assured that I'll be heard. But I'm scribed by an idiot, Who can't spell for toffee. Who is drunk as a skunk, Always drinking Irish Coffee. And then there is the rhyme, All forced to make it fit. And here's a small example, It reads just likes hit. So now ends my sad lament, By a bad poem ignored by you. If found end my suffering, And tear me quickly in two.