As I strolled down  Beaker Street
A neon sign flashed in front of me

That said "Only Serious Poets Need Apply"
(Blink) "Need Apply" (Blink) "Need Apply"

So it was I thought to myself
I can think of noone else

As serious a poet such as I

I looked to the right and then the left
Feeling pretty confident about myself

And decided to take a gander inside

The room it was totally dark
In the corner was the tiniest of sparks

I did a stately poetic stroll in that direction

Feeling I might have made a mistake
This thought occurring a little too late

But of course this whole scene might just be window dressing

A voice said we don't need a poet at all
Just someone dumb and gullible

That's the moment in my pants I started messing

Turns out it was a mad scientist
With a masters degree in craziness

What were his dastardly plans I could only be guessing

I was grabbed by a couple of thugs
Who highly dislike deodorant and mouthwash

******* and flown off to the smallest of islands

Where they did unspeakable experiments on me
In the first, second, and third degree

All because to insanity they took a liking

When it was they were finally done
With what those nut jobs consider good fun

Don't know how many walls they had me climbing

Daily now I plan my escape
I only hope that I'm not to late

When the opportunity arrives I hope I don't blow it

I find it so hard to believe
That this all has happened to me

And Why?
Because of me being such a serious poet

You can use a heavy blindfold
Tie it to a chair
Throw it in a waiting trunk
Take it far from here

Ask it out fishing with you
Miles away from shore
Grab it when its back is turned
Toss it overboard

Hope against hope
That it'll give up the ghost
But love for loves sake
Will always make its way back home

You can climb the highest mountain
Push it off a cliff
Peer over to the bottom
Watch it as it hits

Place it in a rocket
Shoot it to the moon
While it's up in orbit
Pack your stuff and move

Though you would think by now
That by now you'd know
Love will always find a way
To make its way back home

Take it to the wild side of town
Sell it to the gypsies
Whisper underneath your breath
Hope that you don't miss me

When the weather's cooler
Take it to the fair
While in the house of mirrors
Leave its reflection there

Even when it's stranded
Left to shiver in the cold
Love in all its wonder
Will make its way back home

you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump

your pitiful braggart
mean as a cuss
a bludgeon for a mouth
with a mind full a ****

its understood
you hate the press
you like the shadows
to relieve your stress

well big boy
you are the man
some people say
your loved by the clan

thanks for telling us
about the size of your *****
while conservatives smile
and give it a lick

your a star studded pageant
of confusion and lies
do you work for Putin
are you one of his spies

show us your taxes
are you a ***** for a foe
are you owned by a devil
we need to know

your purging the swamp
is that what you say
Exxon and Goldman-sax
so thats how you play

you talk so big
why not give it a rest
lets see what you can do
besides be a pest

it doesn't bode well
that you don't pay your bills
let subcontractors go under
so what if it kills

break up some families
of Latin decent
with a heart like a razor
are you really that bent

are you big blabber mouth
but don't a have clue
about our constitution
that keeps us true

we trust you completely
let your kids to the job
no problem at all
are you still friends with the mob

are ethics for others
ah to hard for Trump
will America wither
are you cancerous lump

we need some one
who can help us out
not a reckless fool
that fills us with doubt

you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump

i am the 1 am drunk text
i am the family pictures popping up on  your newsfeed
i am the polaroid at the bottom of your desk drawer
i am the modern baseball song that you can't seem to skip
i am the candy wrappers in your car door
i am the cd stuck in your car radio that is just me singing a song i never should have written for you
i am the way a dorm room bed is always just big enough
i am the draft of a poem that was never just right

and

you are the space between the lines of the poems that aren't fixing anything
you are the dried up corsage in the back of my closet
you are the third step on the stairs into the basement where i swear i can still see stains of mascara on the carpet from november 8, 2015
you are the post card i never sent
you are the post card i sent but never should have
you are the phone calls i can't make
you are the nightmares i have where we are both running from something not clear to us


now that i've set the scene are you sure you want to delete your audition tape?
are you sure that your first try was good enough?