Right, here it is, the mother of all Odes...the Ode to Odes!!!

Ode to Odes:

Oh Odes,
You allow our creative juices to flow,
In a torrent of words, a river moving not fast but slow,
Allowing a bizzare collection of rhyming words to grow,
See, now you know,
That I have to write 'sow',
Or maybe if I can find the right metaphorical image 'low',
But I don't think that'll happen, so...
I can say something about snow,
Which lies on the edge of a plateau,
And is contrasted only by a black crow,
Which flew in from Bordeux,
And who has the distinctly unfrench name of Joe.
The crow, Joe, he won a game show,
It was a crap show, he won ten games in a row,
Just by shouting "Hello!"
"How did a crow shout Hello?" Well, he dug a hole with a hoe 
And planted a tape recorder with a speaker which did bestow,
Upon Joe the Crow, the gift of the word Hello which he recorded off a human a while ago.
The story of Joe the Crow is a sad one, as he died when shot with a bow,
So remember! Odes are great! I better go,
I have to print this bastard out and give it to Philip Larkin to get my quid pro quo,
Silly bastard would give anything for a poem. (for this I'm getting some Pernod)