Thing Poem by Justin Reamer

Things, things,
The king of vague words,
Who knew who came up with it,
When they're for the birds?

What is there to know,
When people say 'things' all the time?
What is there to handle,
When it doesn't even rime?

What is there to remember,
When it is incomplete?
What is in the chain of thought,
When we do compete?

What is the information,
With ambiguity?
What are you trying to say,
That you like promiscuity?

Thing is such a vague word,
For it is imprecise,
What is there to know,
When it is not so nice?

Mrs Stoel always told me,
Simultaneously,
That 'tis clear as mud,
Mr Strobel always told me,
That writing it never makes it 'bud.'

What is there to know,
Whenever it doesn't show?
What is there to know,
When it doesn't snow?