Roast of An Unnamed Poet

He's packin' magic Viagra Muse infused grooves set the mood grab ya' and stab ya' we're opposites still we speak the same language teach and preach truth every time I stop to see what he's droppin' my dang pen commits sin, flips a lid ink pours, runs down the paper like Jill Abramson did the NY TIMES just in time verse transfers kinetic energy activating a semantic force field formulating symbiosis through synergy swimming in puddles of puns changing sans rays into rays of sun you can hear bums humming metonym hymns from the Twin Cities to Tuscan igniting a revolution of prostitutes and hooligans on hallucinogens to scoot loose from futons learn to earn and swim with loose Louis Vuitton boots on whacked out kids from Pakistan with crack in hand hear his pen and pack into Shaggin' Wagon vans to kick up sand and do their dance and just hold hands the whole globe huggin' like cousins uncovering hovering heteronomy mysteries evading lexicographers throughout centuries of history he's teaching wide eyed chicks to utilize polysemy by demonstrating thermal viscosity rates of his balls and prick my mental lexicon is spinning so I'm sinnin' then I'm grinnin' and grabbing inflatable girlfriends over for dinner then dessert to be followed immediately by frenzied poetic circle jerks I must admit the fabric of his hyperbole allegoristic-ally makes me wanna on·o·mat·o·poe·ia in my pants and break into a hyper pole dance! he's coordinating conjunctions box munching at the junction whole heartedly gets retarded with descriptive hard-ons vast array of play-on words for you ladies to chew on verse for verse inch for inch tit for tat this and that hot and heavy with romance enough to make a man wear a hard hat there inside the high rise under construction in the pants damn Mister (CENSORED), atta-boy! and though I'mma boy with no vagina, boy (you don't mind if I call you mister by design there boy?) Man, the images your tongue twisters send I must commend and admit if you had a different rear end... then WO'-man I might have to apprehend your ass with my ten inch night stick, oh hell, it's just past a hard seven, but who's countin' man? As you see poetry is a curse conjuring harmful words of demonic proportions reading your scriptures' depictions interrogatively tells me these inscriptions are precisely the prescription I need to erect the sword which could ultimately lead to seismic abortions...dang... Did I just type that?