This poem wrote itself on the bus to work,
And then on the train back home.
It wrote itself while I was working hard
at something else.
This poem skipped breakfast and lunch,
It drank three cups of coffee with sugar,
Followed by a slice of terribly sweet cake.
And it wouldn’t stop at that.
This poem had a drink.
Or two. In fact, it might’ve mixed it all up.
Wine after beer, have no fear.
This poem has no respect
for sonnets, ballads and neat little rhymes.
Police arrested this poem for insulting a couple of haikus.
This poem is lost because it prefers losing.
This poem wants to learn old languages
and ignore emerging markets.
This poem has made no investments.
It doesn’t want your money,
Or your praise. This poem is so stupid.
It thinks it will survive in the real world.
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