A Stream-of-Consciousness Has Broken it’s Banks (aka The Poetry Thief)


The Poetry Thief

The Poetry Thief
Is beyond belief
And in a moment brief
He can pick the line from out of your poem
And will be wandering lonely as a gno-em.

Before your love is like a red-red anything
He can be stoppething one of three
And he may even set a cat alight
To see his tigger burning bright
(Nasty man!)
But, his words so recently belonging
To others
Are now his for the wronging.

April is the cruelest month
And someone wrote this wonth
But he now writes that April is
As April does and is better than July because
That’s they way the Poetry Thief works
By challenging the other poetical berks
To explain their lines
Their fantastical twerks
And regurgitating them as his
Not in parody
But in a cage
As of Michael Farraday
Who, as anyone knows, is faraway
The best poet that never wrote
A poetical note to his milkman
Stan, which goes to show
That a stream of consciousnessness
Is okay if you don’t paddle too deeply into it
For the banks may become steeply
And you may drown
And head headfirst down
To its bottom
Where you shall lie
All misbegotten
And distinctly forgotten –
And your final thought:

“Isn’t life rotten
to the core;
I wanted for less
And received
Nothing more.”

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