Yeah.
Uh-huh.
Poetry, baby.
Listen up,

I submit lots of poems but never got one published,
‘Cause I have trouble puttin’ words together to make them sound good,
And then sometimes I’ll forget how to rhyme,
And it just sounds like I’m talking normally…

Okay my bad.
Cough. Ahem.
Just need to focus.
Let’s try this again.
…

Other poets call me simple for callin’ some bitch a whore,
But I’ll say it straight up, I don’t need no metaphor,
‘Cause my poems aren’t meant to be deep and have meaning,
I ain’t Robert Frost- this ain’t a snowy fucking evening.

You can call me an asshole, but I need a vacation
From synecdoche, meter and personification,
I’m sorry if that’s not where I draw my inspiration,
But go fuck flaming faggots if you want alliteration.
…

No I’m not a famous poet yeah my name ain’t Edgar,
But all the ladies say that they like my rhymes better.
My English teacher told me somethin’ the day that I met her,
She said she’s digs the classics yeah but I make her wetter.

So fuck William Wordsworth and Francis Scott Key,
Fuck Wilde, fuck Virgil, and Dante Alighieri

Fuck you William Shakespeare, I don’t write sonnets, fuck that.
Oh and Ted Hughes, I’m sorry, but I fucked Sylvia Plath.
I don’t want to get into details about how it happened,
But I had her like Whitman, screamin’ “Oh Captain! My Captain!”

Now I do apologize if parts of this poem offend ya,
But you shoulda known from the title I ain’t a member of MENSA,
So fuck you too if you say my words are mind numbing,
Cuz at the end of the night I’ll have all the girls E.E. Cumming.