Bad Poetry at its Best

Thought it would be fun to try my hand at writing some really bad poetry. Here's my first offering. Depending on how it is received, I may write more. Seems writing poor prose is another of my many talents:

Oh for the lackluster spankings of my youth for which no switch was

waiting for me yet ‘twas I who pluct it from the tree to swiftly gain approval 

from my father’s ever vigilance to teach me my place in life.

And tho the sting of nettles was not sweeter than the sound of my own tears

trickling down my cheek as I layeth in bed sobbing of my wretched self

pondering not to know my fate as adulthood lie just beyond my grasp.

Then I would be taught again and again but nay I never learned and now

I sit upon this sheetless cot in a cell as barren as my mother after birth of

her only child, the one who put her husband to his early grave.