Just to indulge the aesthete inside, here's an uncustomary bit of "poetry." It was inspired by a frustrated desire to play tennis without a net. I think I'd better stay way behind the baseline... gonna get ripped for this!
This poem never was
Stillborn. Dropped from the clouds
It landed on it's feet
Ready to feed.
But what does a poem eat
Sprouts, leaves?
Vodka is what it drinks
Till it grows strong in it's youth.
At length it gets a car
Lies about it's first accident
Experiments with meter and rhyme
But quits just in time.
And then there are girls
Oh girls! They are insoluble
So then poems turn to religion and gin
But that makes them really intolerable..
Marriage is the death of poems
But yes poems have needs and so they wed
They raise the kids and count the days
Then one day they are dead.
But if a poem is really good
It goes up into the sky.
And if a poem is really bad
You'll delete it by and by.
Bye. Bye. :)
Stillborn. Dropped from the clouds
It landed on it's feet
Ready to feed.
But what does a poem eat
Sprouts, leaves?
Vodka is what it drinks
Till it grows strong in it's youth.
At length it gets a car
Lies about it's first accident
Experiments with meter and rhyme
But quits just in time.
And then there are girls
Oh girls! They are insoluble
So then poems turn to religion and gin
But that makes them really intolerable..
Marriage is the death of poems
But yes poems have needs and so they wed
They raise the kids and count the days
Then one day they are dead.
But if a poem is really good
It goes up into the sky.
And if a poem is really bad
You'll delete it by and by.
Bye. Bye. :)
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