The Poem that is not Really a Poem

‘Tis a difficult century to be born
I’d think the poets and bards of old blest and lucky
Shakespeare and T.S. Elliot has messed things up, mon
R n’ B singers added insult to injury,

so I turned rapper and said fuck it

Oh, my lady, I sigh
What could I write that would seem sincere?
Every stanza I think of seems like a shameless remix no matter how hard I try

You think I’m a Don Juan, I say I’m a Romeo – tell me, is it fair?

I once wished –
A wish in which I wished you’ll wish I wished for you
Seeing as I wish for you, bet you know this is true (boo)
Can I call you boo, too?
September 11 has nothing on us –

we are potentially explosive like the Hiroshima lores

But you won’t listen, will you?
I’m never perfect, am I?
I’m either too short, or too tall, hairless or hairy
I’m loquacious, taciturn, too funny or dreary?
Can I ax my height? Or put on wedges?
I want you as my one, the only, and not one of my badges.
John Doe may be the perfect guy
But why’s he perfect, can you tell me why?

Oh, she speaks in defence of John Doe.
He’s brave and kind, he loves kittens though
He’s sensitive and wept at her mother’s funeral
And has dreams of being some fancy Five-star general
John Doe is too busy with charity to write wooing poems
Though he may have once composed a moving requiem

Ah, I see, I say.
I am but a pale comparison.
Carry on, I say.
I shall fade into the horizon.

And so I did.
The End.


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