MRF's First Poetry Slam Don't blame me. I just checked out this site. The resulting post came from my muse.

SUNY poets without jobs.
Dirty ripped jeans.
They’re such slobs!

Twenty stone lass reads her book.
I look around for the Gong Show hook.
Warbling love sonnet about her ass.
Forty stanzas later, I’d take the gas (pipe).

She can’t be that bad; surely I jest
I’ll quote her work as a test.

“I love my big fat rear. It’s where I poo.
I love its smell. And ask me if I care
If you hate its pimples, hair, star tattoo.
You can only hope (beg) to see it bare.”

Next writer for our enjoyment
Is some army man post deployment.
I really try to catch his vibe.
Too bad he’s such a shitty scribe.

Barking rhymes is his plan:
He screed begins: “Man!
You don’t understand!
You didn’t fight in Vietnam!”

Next up is a smelly sapphite.
Talking trash, spouting shite.
She hates men as it should be
Her looks will drive us up a tree.

She begins and ends with random words.
In between, she mouths turds.
“Lady.
Bug.
Razor.
Slit.
Hate.
Named for preconceived gender roles.
Revolution”

But none compare to our next wannabe.
He has nineteen years of life memory.
He isn’t aware of what he lacks
I’d like to hit him with a car jack.

He turns his baseball cap to face us.
His subliminal signal to get Ser-i-ous.
I start to rise, I can’t sit still.
I know should I stay I would kill.

As I rise, the screed begins.
An endless litany of social sins.
I look around for a baseball bat.
I should show junior where it’s at.

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Until my muse strikes again, peace out.  ¶ 2:30 PM