My poems: poor, pretentious pulp in piles,
pretenders, masquerading sheets with smiles,
composed of cant by calm capricious sea,
reflective rhymes run off from mouth of me:
a raw, retarded writer on the rocks,
who weaves his witty words and hopes he shocks
his former friends, who all have robbed him blind
of real respect and treated him unkind.
My poems, plucked as rib from Adam\'s side,
share shape and soul with Eve, who sought to hide,
when she\'d succumbed to hiss of Satan’s snake.
Then slept with sin, which made her poor heart ache,
like heart of mine, from literary toil,
with poems pressed, compressed like spring in coil,
which you could read, if you were of a mind;
be curious, or if not, just be kind!
My poems, penned to please, may piss you off,
stick in your throat, sometimes, and make you cough,
like allergy’s distasteful monkey nut,
which from poetic diet, you can cut!