A Poem About Prose (The Goth)
Aug 12, 2021
What are you
Larking raven
Nothing I’ve imagined
Rather a big man with a little skull
That hair mop you call a beak
Why can’t you see through what you do
Because your drug is you
Every day you pass through word
Never a writer always a nerd
Not a nord like you imagine
But rather a bird
What’s that stupid hat
And those dumb pigtails
Shouldn’t your mother have taught you better?
Penguin Bird?
You’re a rapist, gothic writer.
Enjoy some absinthe, on me, the former taxpayers.