Poetry is shit,
Sometimes it
spouts out
In great
gouts
Of snivelling
piffle
And wittering
drivel.
Elsewhen constipation
of inspiration
Can clench the
situation.
A poet may strain
and strain.
And produce
a void.
As though
dosed up
On opioids
They can emit
no odes or verse,
And what’s worse,
There may be
a sonnet or even a haiku,
Stuck right
up there,
Somewhere.
The one day,
Grunt,
spurt, splash,
The poet
produces
More balderdash.
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