Bad Poetry Contestant
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Poets Gone Wild
Lighting a match of freedom,
I twirl the baton of death even as
I chew my cud of optimism.
And while I pop the pimple of pomposity and
Pick the scab of indelicacy,
I remove the belly button lint of deception,
Thereby crushing the last reason for continuing in
This mortar and pestle of thought.
Oh wait, don’t forget about my soul!
My soul is the tympani section in the orchestra of my incarnation.
My soul is flying with only one operating engine
On this twin engine Beechcraft of life.