Leave Poetry To The Big Guns

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

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

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

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

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

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...