Mom says he's not naughty, I still have frustrations,
because of his constant, untimely filtrations.
That boy should receive some kind of citation,
or at least be put on lengthy probation,
But Mom doesn't mind it (some crazy fixation),
she still doesn't mind
after nine months gestation.
I wrote this poem for The Daily Universe on 1 March 2007. They were too unartistic to recognize my poetic genius. Didn't they notice my perfectly strict amphibrachic tetrameter? My impeccable line breaking? The unstrainted, unassuming adult language coming from a toddler sibbling? As intuitive, self-aware, and grown-up as a child ever has been--Huck Finn, Ender Wiggins, pshaw. This is GENIUS!
I have more confidence in your taste. You will appreciate it. Am I right, or have I misplaced my trust in you as well?...
Who can a true artist confide in these days? Sheesh.
2 comments:
Nobody understands you. Grow a beard and mutter to yourself.
Daddy rap? Is that like gangsta rap, only with proper spelling?
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