(04 October 1943 / Germany)

A Brilliant Poet

He suffered from a phlebolith,
a rather nasty fusion,
a gray and stringy, foamy pith
it caused a great delusion.
He thought he was a gifted boy
but to his consternation
the only person to enjoy
his immature narration
was mother who, between TV,
soap operas and Springer
read all his so-called poetry
and raised her ladyfinger:
My son, the poet, bless him God
some day will have the masses
come running just to hear his odd....
and sit there, on their asses.
In awe they'll be, and rightfully,
such talent, such devotion!
I think that I may go and pee
into the Southern Ocean.

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Comments (1)

I'll drink to that Herbert!