A Month In Verse for the Month of Verse
O, cruel month of poetry!
How shall I honor thee?
Dig a ditch?
Buy a bong?
Be a bitch?
write a song?
Maybe I should eat a worm?
Or go to France?
Or get a perm?
Or eat my pants?
I could take a bath,
or use the lav,
or say hath
instead of have.
If I really tried
I could probably grow
a thicker hide.
Or some prickles.
Though it tickles.
Or — hey, I knowetry!
I'll write some poetry!
He is a hot dude,
An essayist and gardener,
An administrator,
A writer who rattles in convivial feuds.
His meditations on museums,
Fly with ethereal lightness,
While his carnal explorations bless,
With wit for high and pedestrian.
Praise the alliterative writer,
The hotty who looks mean
but would never demean,
His grateful readers.
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