Bad Poetry
After foreplay made of doggerel
Rhymes of death
There was a progression to free verse
And for two whole lines
Probably stolen, unawares
From someone else
The poet reached the empyrean
Domain of mediocrity
Before nodding off into a bowl of blancmange
And suffocating
I’m eating the blancmange.
One must grasp what one can
From a troubled world.
