Tonight I sensed the arts' demise
and thought of your indecent writ
that could be used to kill the flies
that buzz above your perfumed feet.
To liberate what's kept inside
you must allow yourself to dart
where inspiration poisoned died
cause of your mindless abstract art.
But this is wrong! The muses went
(because your odored feet emit
condensed that deathly worn socks scent) ,
outside to breathe! Lickety split!
Your mind, surprisingly, expressed
what could be taken for a verse
tormented nostrils were suppressed
their agonized intake was terse.
Your fans, inhaling the extrait
(those well worn socks let loose with pride)
decided to command in verse
what should be buried cause it died.
They called it 'poem' but was known
that flies, somehow, became extinct,
bystanders run to wear cologne,
your Sockspeare theme, was thus succinct.
Those blackened socks you wore around
with plastic sneakers, bought on sale,
became the cause the fish have drowned
and deathly scents were to curtail.
Please tell us why thy feet perfumes
became the symbol of foot-prose?
Dug up feet-ology exhumes
what should be listed to dispose.
© 10-13-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved