Poo-etry
I’ve got a new book to read, so let’s end the night with the world’s worst poem! Courtesy of two minutes of hiding from the kids:
I’m writing poetry now,
pretentious contentious pap poetry
tired old cliches
of death and sex and love
growing old and losing hope
just some
old fashioned poetry
I’ll use ‘ere and ’tis
and long ago
and themes of darkness and death
and now we come
to one last line
of poetry — hey, where’s my shoe?
Walt Whitman I am not.
