I feel like I’m
supposed to write
something that rhymes
to be worthy of the time it takes
to read it on stage.
Like they might not like what I have to say
unless I say it in the way
their drunk ears are ‘customed to hear.
Lest they just go away…

So here we are in this bar while I try to rhyme to pass the time,
and there you are,
not too far from where I stand,
making a fool of who I am,
but at least I look cool as I ruin this scam.
Butchering words and sewing them shut, just ’cause I can
The doctor and mortician all in one
just having a little fun
at the expense of the English language.

It’s just too bad my patients
seldom survive.
Decaying remains of poetic refrains speckle my mind.
Dead and dying words are lying on the floor
and all I can think is why…
Why do my patients always die?