Authors in general, and poets for sure,
are filled with bull shit, if not, manure.
So busy backslapping and insecure,
mistake some trash for poem of the year.
SHOUT with all caps, like they can't hear,
or forget punctuation; their writing is so clear.
Possessive is all it's [it is], and it's so nice,
but I would not own it, knowing its price.
Poets are good at counting their toes,
1's, twos, free's [as I be], I knows.
But history is not what they chose,
the 1800s, 1900s, and so it goes.
Forgetting history is everyone's sin,
let's forget it, so we can live it again.
I've written a book and now I'll get rich.
My book is not selling; to whom can I bitch?
My friends and my family tell me I'm great,
I've got bills to pay and my royalties are late.
Guess I'll die a pauper and after I'm gone,
I'll be famous as hell in the great beyond.
In the dreams of all wannabes like me’s,
a writer and poet whose stink lingers on
Since ya'll been totally missing the point
of me poems here, me thought I'd write
a little ditty in honor of that fact. Please
don’t take it suicidal, I am an equal
opportunity offender. ;-)
Copyright 2012 © Ronald W. Hull