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Poem
Now that I have gotten that over with,
Being straightforward as a piss-ant on fire,
Telling you it just is what it is,
That behind all the frizz,
Is a beardless fake whose heraldic bearings
Are the arms of a sickly snake,
And that all this derogatory self-derision is decisively the result
Of a disease smitten assault by a prodigal bug
Whose virility is known to create sterility of poetic taste-
Oh what a waste to find oneself in such a caste,
Outcast in a landless mire of sea,
Where there is no Sea king to lead back to land,
Where seeking leads not to seeing
But only to being the miserly plot written by this poetasters hand-
Now, to repeat, that I have gotten that over with,
I can really try, 
Once and for all,
To really get it over with.
Like really really real.
So here it is, 
In medias res,  
The big ordeal:

Merde! Merde!
J’ai oublié on this very day,
To have taken my ressurectine,
The nectar which this fool requires with some dismay
To not forget his pointless points.
Where is my medicine Edison?
Where is my pill?
How shall I cart this over the hill?
O’sir,
Dear sir, 
For in the middle of this rabid petri dish of sheer excitement,
Close to moiety’s shribble, 
With voice shrill,
Ready to take aim and avoid all shame,
I was, I was, I was, I swear
Almost there,
But alas, 
I am,
Now out of gas,
With nothing more to gain, 
A timid loveless swain,
A witless poet with no further words to amass,
A neutered puppy in a jungle,
Without a rumble, 
To stumble upon just the right word,
To close off looking less like a turd,
Then this early morning bird,
Preferably one day,
Could theoretically mumble.  

Did I mention that between finding Absolute Knowledge,
And miming Absolute Knowledge,
I would like to find myself snuggly ensconced in the arms,
Of not only Winnie the Pooh,
But surely Yogi Berra too?
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