I have decided to write a poem consisting of hippy happy nonsense syllables
Like bunnies hopping about a field of various grasses with only an occasional poison sumac
The erratic highly entertaining motion would be illustrated by fascinating word play
Of both a phonic, or punning and a multiple-meaning, or semantic kind
Meant to dazzle the reader with the interplay of my mopping morphs and mowing semes
(That was a Shakespearean reference chucko)
And produce a nearly–lysergic storm in the grateful consumer’s contented cortex.
But since in actual fact I’ve got zero of any of this to offer,
And want nothing more but to lie back down and resume reading escapist literature,
I’ll leave this **** on the screen instead.
Who are you to judge me – the Pope?