D Is For Doggerel
Oftimes I'm asked; “What drives you, Bro, to generate such verse,
the bulk of which is awful and the balance, frankly, worse?”
The dark side of reality fueled each chilling ode by Poe,
For Macaulay, Roman heroes made his inkwell overflow.
Ernest Thayer waxed apoplectic when his baseball team fell flat,
and thusways primed he penned the rhyme called “Casey at the Bat”.
Such things as these inspire me not, as time has surely proved.
Sunrise, sunset, and sand and surf all leave me quite unmoved.
All of natures grandeurs no rhyme from me will spawn.
An hour of bliss, a baby’s kiss at best provokes a yawn.
One sight only stirs my muse and brings my blood to boiling,
and renders versifying a great pleasure, not a toiling,
and flings wide creative floodgates that before were tightly shut.
Nothing fans my rhyming flames like Kim Kardashians’ butt!
You may keep the rings of Saturn! No opus will they launch!
But I’ll darken reams of paper re the joys of Kimmies’ haunch.
While some bards wax euphoric at the lunar glow in June,
I pen my rhymes more clearly by the light of KayKay's moon.
She's so sexy!
She's so cute!
I love her steatopygean glute!
Pass my cam! I gotta shoot!
A picture of it,
O yes I love it!
I love that butt.
Call me a mutt!
(Perhaps in rutt)
But I love that titanic,
Oceanic,
and yet uniquely Kardashianic!
Butt!
Like water from a ruptured dam the flood of verse pours forth,
inspired by a southern view of Ms. Kardashian, heading north.
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