Wasteland Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

There once was a poetry page
that let poets of any old age
post their works in plain sight
and await overnight
for a critical (m) ass to engage.

Things went smooth like a baby's pink bum
one could hear oftentimes a slow hum
when the moon was a cheese
fully round just to please
one could sense in the distance the drum.

It was conquera and dividay*
some young pimpleface came to display
seven truckloads of crap
just to be on the map
quite akin to a prêt-à-porter.

It was usually just a dumb bloke
made of blackberry timber, not oak.
With a mind numbing need
to be spilling his seed
like a multileaf French artichoke.

No one read his concoctions at that,
and why would you if someone had shat
on your sidewalk at noon
an entire platoon
it is hardly a pink pussycat.


(* the pronunciation of the Latin divide)