There once was a writer named Kyle,
Who tried hard to vary his style.
He knew he aught
To fully assort.
But lacking topics to exhort,
He turned to sport,
But he had to abort,
For a different sort.
As a last resort,
He tried to import,
The thrills of transport,
But with scant retort.
It gave no support.
His stories were fraught,
And his poems were short.
It’s sad to report,
It all came to naught,
With none of it really worthwhile.
