Three of my clerihews made it in to the latest issue of Gilbert:
T. S. Eliot
was not appreciated by the proletariat.
"Those new-fangled poems kinda bore us.
He writes like he's sittin' with an open thesaurus."
St. Paul,
by modern standards wasn’t tall,
but he did go from guarding the coats
to being one of the Church’s GOATs.
Alfred Hitchcock
developed a bad case of writer's block
despite his use of a bran muffin
as the MacGuffin.
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