Poetry for Uncultured Assholes

I've never been a huge fan of poetry, and I still feel that poems that don't rhyme reflect a monumental lack of effort on the part of the author. But still, every once in a while, the lovely muse Calliope takes a dump on my head and I feel inspired to pen an epic verse. So I've taken time away from writing my usual slash furry Harry Potter fan fiction to write the following poem. I call it "Hearsay".

Ned
said
Ted
shot Fred
in the head
and Fred
bled
red
in the bed
'til he was dead!

I'm particularly proud of the unique A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A rhyming scheme, as well as the 1-1-1-2-3-2-1-1-3-4 meter (known amongst us poets as iambic trimono-di-tri-di-dimono-tri-quadrameter).

Thank you for your indulgence. I now return to my previous tale. As you might recall, Snape had just been hit by a spell that had turned him into a gigantic, horny ocelot dressed in a latex nurse's uniform...