Occasionally, I am a Poet.

Once in a while,

upon a blue moon,

every now.

and then…

I use my pen

to poet stuff

which is sometimes,

if not always,

a little rough,

around the edges;

using as my inspiration,

things found under hedges,

and laying, lying, in the road

less travelled;

which inspirational things,

once unravelled,

become the finest expression

of my poetic oven,

after the ingredients

are blessed by a coven

of witches;

but, what’s a purely poetical man to do,

when his words they seem

to barf at you.