Supplicate before my novel in verse

I want to write a novel in verse
it will be brevitas wit, bocacious lust and lava bright burst.
Inside its pages reborn will be
malnourished and long martyred Poesy.
She a mischief most spry
inside her the privelaged will fly.

All will awe at my prodigious genius,
applaud most egregious
and pour toasts upon my penius.

My novel in verse will enchant
as glass chin haters curse and recant.
It will exalt, bewitch, forment nostalgia.
Magically it will salve fervent neuralgia.
The ladies who lap it will weep.
The laddies who learn it will leap.
Even dogs will get a nutritious nibble to keep,
for my rhymes taste so sweet,
they will be mandatory homework to complete.
(A better dog she will be if she my novel in verse eat.)

My novel in verse will be taught in class
after class to marvel how taut and what sass.
It will contain elegies, odes and odious gangsters -
soliquies, sonnets and salacious sly pranksters.
Those who sing it will dance and beat breasts;
those who sing it still fest and sweet prance.
And music - that forlorn mute - will trance light upon the novel,
no more she will wallow in modern chests
and morn as if in a dark and stormy hovel.

A magma potion, my novel in verse will make her wake,
and music again will ooze like hot fudge from cake.
I am but a modest man,
not everything I know I can
I merely will effect with my novel in verse:
Epiphany, ecstasy and profligate purse.