push me against that old brick wall
the firm hand you lean into my shoulder with
the fast hand you redirect my hair by
the eye-yize that do every all else
the sun its does not care brilliance
politics and topographics---what!?
and i will drop these roses i picked for you
and i will right there be the love
they grew by and for
so shut your golden mouth, mr. collins
response to one over-sexed pote
who no longer has the decency
to put good writing in print.
i never liked him anyway
except that he's a nice guy.
too little remaining care for the craft,
too many blowhard followers
equals tummy-ache after the poem
and head-ache after the comments.
so i diced him up a little, and made that sexy.