>soooo sorry if I insult anybody here but I really hate poetry that isn't.

The oesophagi are marching, marching,
Always marching,
And a shrill blue fills the nether.

I cry out to the spiteful Sunday,
But he's gone.
Wombat wandering over my mind.

Belle bel has spoken,
And now we know, bien sūr, we KNOW,
What she thinks of
Poetry like this