A Poem About Prose (The Goth)

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.