I am inspired and will die soon.
It’s survival of the fattest cat.
The poet is the lowest link on the food chain.
I swore off Coca-Cola, but I’m still eating plenty of sugar.
Mary Poppins called and wanted her umbrella back.
The hills are alive with music, Nazis and Mike Tyson’s high pitched shrieking.
I don’t believe in sequels, but I watch them every chance I get. I didn’t believe in us, but that didn’t stop me from pursuing you like you were a hound of the Baskervilles.
My lips were chapped so I bought some ChapStick.
I put a saddle on you because I was bored of riding you bareback.
Dreams escape me once I’ve awakened and the coffee seeps into my Semitic bones.
I’m not a liar, but that doesn’t mean I don’t stretch the truth on occasion especially when it comes to my exploits during the war or how I once so recklessly loved you.
The lions in the Coliseum took one look at me and ran the other way.
The Christians on the other hand knew I was no match for them and took me apart piece by piece and stanza by stanza.
It’s survival of the most hyperbolic hypocrite. The poet is an endangered species and if you don’t believe me that’s your loss and your stupidity working overtime.