Oh what fun it is to have many hate you.
Writing shitty poetry may be considered an artform upon itself,
though I doubt it.
Consider this piece. No rhyme or course for which to read it.
I could scribe a line of dimension longer then all written upon this
page.
Or one that isn't.
So you stumble, and consider it to be nothing, not poetry.
But, you see.
You're not doing it properly.
You can't just read the "poem".
You must have a relative, friend, or loved one
slide their arm down your throat, far enough
that
they may feel your gooshy insides.
Then, have them grab hold and give a yank.



Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Khepary, in the year 209 MA.