There is no poetry here
Only an expanse of blank
Filled with apprehension and fear
And the odd unloved tear
Since we've murdered out the poet
The words they seldom rhyme
They just pour out an unmetered spigot
Jangling incomprehensibly all the damn time
Picked up gently in the hand
They squirm as newborn chicks
Peeping their pronunciations out
Before punctuating it with beaky clicks
Perhaps they will grow into something after all
So you shoo them into the open field
Where they run as fast as their Bambi legs can take them
No leash no law only gravity to attempt to keep them heeled
Murdered be the poet
Hanged is the author
The writer had his hands removed
But the words continue to flow
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