An unholy indisposition to everything sublime.
A tight knot
In the pit of the mind’s stomach
That instantaneously churns whenever any literary aim
Crosses it
Transcending all “schools” of thought
Known and imaginable to man.
Thoughts go a muck
And in no time bit by bit
A mouthwatering piece is birthed and it’s so much fun

A wimple
To cover a pimple
Affixed squarely on dimple.

Wont rupture one’s
Spleen
But it’ll preen
One’s sense of keen.

Resigned to the fact
That
Beggars won’t be riders
Anymore.

True eternal Greatness
Springs
From a fountain
Of abject humility.