My ‘Ugly’ Poem

Ugly Poem



my ugly poem.

No redeeming features,

it stinks

(thinks: ‘how can it be, ugly?

for only beauty there is in po-et-ry.’)

Pinks and blues

have pretty hues,

this poem is brown and gritty;

smelling to high Heaven

of a shark-secreted city…

or worse.

A Chevy or a Lincoln Continental have style;

this is a hearse of a poem,

undertaken in verse

by an attitude terse;

no Terpsichore or muse

is more likely to abuse

the senses,

and I have will have once got

a confusion of senses

to boot.

Who gives a hoot?

Rhetorically speaking of course;

for I consider this a tour de force!

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