There once was thrown a poets ball that ghosts of poets threw
Shakespeare wore his fancy pants, and Whitman wore his too
Ovid wore a nice new toga, Keats was busy doing Yoga
Byron was a dance floor king, Catullus just drank everything.
Shelley did the Jitterbug with Edgar Allan Poe
Yeats's head began to spin, he thought he'd better go
Oscar Wilde did Twist and Shout, Wordsworth smoked and got threw out
Austen sipped a Chardonnay, Kipling didn't want to stay.
So when the clock hit 3am,and all were worse for wear
Their time had come now once again, and all went 'poof' into thin air.