Roland Gibbons,
a workmate with the eloquence of an inebriated goat,
the decorum of a
Grievious Bodily Harm injected feral pig,
and the discretion of a puppy
that wags its tail at serial killers,
asked me what I did on the weekend.
‘Oh you wrote poetry’ he remarked,
with all the energy
of a chronic fatigue syndrome victim,
whose just lost a lung.

Obviously, reading X rated Wonder Woman comics,
while sucking down a six pack
as forcefully as an irrigation pump,
is such a superior past time
to honing one’s literary prowess
I may as well euthanize myself right now.

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