You may not know me, but I’m a pleasant sort;
the very merry fella who would never abort
a conversation in relation to an aggressive tone
but there’s a subject or two that might be best to leave alone.
Stuff in the bedroom? I’ll discuss anyplace.
Politics’s a whirlwind I can rap about for days.
Religion is a topic I have often discussed
but if there’s a single thing that makes me recoil in disgust:

Poetry is the thing I hate.
It’s almost always less than eighth rate.
I don’t read it – except on a date
And usually then it’s mine.
I know no poets that are any good.
Their rhymes are trying and oft misunderstood.
Their latest books, the greatest waste of wood.
Were they all gone? I’d be fine…

Don’t get me wrong; I like lyrics a lot
and satire is great with a sporadic bon mot.
I’ll go to theater every day of the week
but poetry is something that is simply unspeak-
ably bad in my experience. It never gets me off.
One time at a reading, the best part was a cough
that the reader presented in the middle of a peace.
it stopped her reading for a minute – I can say that, at least.

Poetry is a thing I detest.
If a just god ever listened and respected my behest,
she would be paying attention: take a look at me now!
Just point in this direction and with an explosive POW
destroy all poets in a ninety mile wide
radius – or diameter – (I failed math, though I tried).
And with that little item taking care of what is wrong
I think you’d find how more able I’d be to get along.