J-U-N-K Poem by Johnson Barnaby

We'll I'll be--
Er maybe I'll not.
That is the qwestin, ain't it?
But my own qwestin,
Bout this junk
Is who the heck now made it?

Was it a man
With yeller teeth
And scrawny, skimpy fingers?
With a roll a tape
And a hot glue gun
That leaves a smell that lingers?

Melted plastic
Smudgy soot
Cracks and splinters- wires
Bacon grease and
Wildebeest and
Mulleraceous mire

Cabbage roots
Bubble boots
Epileptic lizards
Cornmeal putty
Gabblesnoots
And deep-fried chicken gizzards.

I don't know
And won't be learned
How anyone finds pleasure
In this here heap o'
Rotten burned here
Junk, that's one man's treasure.