The Terminator Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He swept into the hall
where poets had assembled
by the thousands.
Bearing a stack of papers
well-worn and stark with ink
and thoughts of strange emotions
conceived inside the darkness
of God-given convolutions.
and eager, much too eager
to want out of their confines.

'You turkeys', he began,
'I hold here, in my gifted hand
four categories, one of dreck
the others I judge kindly
though many ought to go
and cry on Nature's shoulder
while reminiscing of the time,
the briefest of all moments
when words were flowing
unhindered onto paper
and hope of global recognition
confirming utter talent hung
as tufts of fresh pink clouds
in front of shining eyes.

This is a playground, children,
and some of you, a few
do have what is required here,
to earn participation rights
which does apply to rainy days as well.
I see that going down the slide
or playing in the sand with toys
does have prerequisites, it does!
So, in an effort to convey true fairness
into this little world of recreation
I will remain with you, your referee.

It shall be mandatory for all who come
to check with me and prove their worth.
That way we will be able to, through me,
to separate the chaff from those few berries.