PWNing Poetry

Oh Simon you half bearded fiend
   A try to make confounding poetry
   Has merely manifested a foe in me
This poem ensures the slate will soon be cleaned.
Iambic pentameter I have learned
   And I can dodge trochees even while in sleep
   A pyric foot we can argue to keep
Lets face it boyo you may have been burned.
Yet really I should not be boastful pride
   The truth is that the clock unmanned my work
   An hour is parsimoneous I confess
So head is hung in shame nowhere to hide
   Without my saying I have been a jerk
   It may be that at poetry you are best.