The Grand Society

I sit down and crap spews out forth my pen, It splatters the page, in a signature grand. Grand for society, and grand to the dog, Grand to the illiterate, whose dominance is smog. Why, polluted minds, my poetry is perfection! Once beauty is stripped in each girl’s reflection: Predictable as a cloud, plain as the yellowed grass, Thoughts a colourless canvas, oh so populous. Now we know that fame is well-deserved, So hike up your skirts, and put your creativity to work.