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.