Forty-First Entry

HELLO! WELCOME VIEWER!
TODAY"S POEM IS HUGE BECAUSE I DON"T KNOW HOW MACS WORK!!!! YAY!! I'll fix it later.

How's your new year's going? Mine's going okay. Found another copy of Larry Rivers biography, WHAT DID I DO? after I lost my first copy, and wow! Didn't you really wanna know that!? Aren't you uplifted knowing that I, having lost a book, have now found one!? Today's poem has that in mind.

Here's my poem:

CUPPA TEA WHILE I FALL DOWN THE STAIRS

Yet I bet you it will not spill as I have spilt,
President as I am of the clumsy,
Thou wilt forgive me my cowish sluggery
As thou might forgiveth the January breeze

Which bloweth in thy face like the cannon-blast
Much like my voice bursteth forth as I falleth
Downeth. My book of bawdy biblical poetry
Casts itself down the steps into the land

Of misplaced books. I’m sick of imagining
My pile of lost and fully paid-for things, sick
Of the unforgiving January breeze, purpled prose
And of John Ashbery and his Charlie Brown ways.

I picketh myself from the floor
Like a leper with a speech impediment
Might pick his nose from the floor, saying
Something which someone might hilariously quote.