Monkey See, Monkey Poo

I met a man

whose poetry was this and that,

here and there,

a pitter patter

between theft

and romance

with utmost care.



It was so glitzy and glossed,

polished before it was written.

Spit-shined to the point

where the paper

it was presented on

made a bigger splash

than the muse.



And what muse?

He was sitting in a high-chair

trying to baby-copy

whatever scored Shakespeare a stare.

And many an unwitting eye

fell prey to the living lies

of what the little guy had to share.



    "Ohhh he writes poetry and song!

    Such elegance,

    brilliance,

    though I may not understand!

    He made two words rhyme

    at opposite ends.

    What a man!

    By God, what a man!"





Fucking A.

You'd think,

         "I put my cock in a sock"

was a genius literary plan.

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