Half a line, half a line, half a line onward.
Out of my pen and my breath
rode songs, eight hundred.
A charged Amiright parade.
The muse, I have still obeyed.
As if I'm rolling on meth
I've written eight hundred.

A charged Amiright parade.
Talent fore'er displayed.
Not though the author knew
if he'd ever blundered.
Commenters do reply.
Some of them lurk and lie.
Write up, each girl and guy.
Even if you're bored to death
check the eight hundred.

Panned 'em to right of me.
Panned 'em to left of me.
Pannings in front of me
volleyed and thundered.
Missed on the pace and spell.
Boldy, I wrote so well?
No, I wasted my breath.
This time, my ego won't swell.
Not with eight hundred.

Flesh of dear Catherine bare.
Flesh, J-Lo's turns in air.
'Bout this, my writing's but fair.
Not been good for a while.
Why? The world wondered.
Plunged in the baseball-themed joke.
Right on each line, I choke.
Fussin' and rushin'
through every Dubya poke.
Me, not him who's blundered!
I'd get him back but not
with this one of eight hundred.

Panned 'em to right of me.
Panned 'em to left of me.
Pannings behind me
volleyed and thundered.
Missed on the pace and spell.
Each line, it looks like hell.
It's got an awful smell.
Yea, I wasted my breath.
This time, my ego won't swell.
I should have left with them
much of eight hundred.

When did my glory fade?
With which wild charge I made?
What's point in wondered?
Better ones to be made
in an Amiright parade.
On to nine hundred!