I thought poems were suppose to rhyme
          Like Moon, June and Turpentine

          Full of promises, full of hope
          Chantilly Lace and French milled soap

          Tho some free verse can be real fine
          An doesn’t necessarily have to rhyme

          They cause to ponder, muse and think
          About beauty, lovers, loss and drink

          Today a lot of poems seem to fill a place
          Of angst and anger and just bad taste

          Dog crap smelling and pussy juice
          Nothing pretty – just plain puce

          Jobless poets and nameless faces
          Writing of shit and pissy places

          So many penises – can’t be chance
          Once upon a time they stayed in pants

          And breasts and cunts – pussy galore
          Are words and phrases I just abhor.

          Masturbation, once a vice
          Now written freely for spice and dice

           I just come from a different generation
          Things were quiet, not a manifestation

          That’s just me – That’s all I’ll say
         No one really does care anyway

          Just my opinion, called as such
          can’t say a lot
                                    most times not much.