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Bad Poetry Jesus
Mr. Lyndon makes his rounds on the circuit of his dream
Atop a mounted wooden flat
in front of all those he envied before
He works as an ASSistant Principle
Nobody likes to listen to the ASS
Nobody heeds the advice of the ASS
Guess he's gonna eat worms
after his overwieght mate goes to bed
he sits in a desk
to small for him
and writes the epitimy of bad poetry
savior of obvious rhymes
he bleeds the woes of angstful teenagers
and longing for a bohemian epiphany
"My eyes cry in the dark
because I followed the love-like lark"
He writes,
his #2 Pencil ejaculating onto his college ruled paper
He envisions black necked poetry goddesses
snapping at his works
"He's the next Warhol!"
They'll cry, tears streaming in a
tragically hip happiness
Months of confidence collide into one moment
he stands on the stage
sweaty palm, wedgie and itchy balls
he ignores them all
in favor, of the open mike
The crowd welcomes him,
The Bad Poetry Jesus
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Spinach in Need is Spinach Indeed
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