Before I slash and burn the fields
I kiss the blade my reaper wields.

Bad poetry wells forth and gushes;
lyric sanity now hushes.

Teenage angst is smeared all over.
(Suicidal edge as lover . . .)

Bring some towels! My verse is flowing . . .
And my poetic dullness showing.

It makes your well-paid therapist sing;
this whining/slashing/cutting thing,

Since he or she is paid by the hour --
while you coagulate, and glower.