This is not a poem

Blame Walt for freeing verse,
Celebrating himself in front of everyone;
Or Thomas for being so good at it,
Somehow finding rhythm where there was no rhyme,
Telling us what the thunder said.
But now Robert kicks at his box,
Because the nets are down,
And everyone is hitting balls
All over the place,
Writing poems like mad libs.
In the <adjective> twilight, the burgundy <noun>
Goes <silly word> and <adverb> soars to <place>

3 Responses to “This is not a poem”

  1. Mahir Says:

    Well done.

  2. W.C. Varones Says:

    I was arrested for celebrating myself in front of everyone once.

  3. W.C. Varones Says:

    Twas brillig and the slithy toves
    did gyre and gimble in the wabe

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