Leave Poetry To The Big Guns

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Well, this is how the story goes:
A poem walked into a bar
You’ll claim to doubt me, I suppose

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It breasted up; the patrons froze
(It may have left the door ajar)
Well, this is how the story goes

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From out its sleeve, it pulled a rose
and said “I’ll have a pinot noir” –
you’ll claim to doubt me, I suppose

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The barman said, “We don’t take those.
Four dollars, mate, or out you are.”
Well, this is how the story goes.

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The poem, threatened by the pros
Pulled from that sleeve a Howitzer
(you’ll claim to doubt me, I suppose)

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The pen is mighty, but this shows
Artillery is best by far
Well, this is how the story goes
You’ll claim to doubt me, I suppose...