Author Information
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.
