In defense of really bad poetry
I once knew a girl whose father was filthy rich.
He built row upon row of tacky boxes
that mar the views on the outskirts of San Francisco,
a wilderness that chokes out coffee houses and bars and brothels,
all the places where freedom and language get down.
He passed his declining years trying to rhyme
2 x 4, pencil and Uncle Sam,
verse that would make Ogden Nash blush.
Once she asked me and some friends to her hot tub.
We all had big dicks that she tried to rhyme with fun.
We were naked and she wore a bathing suit.
I was thankful her father had trained her well
in the art of really bad poetry.