How do I hate thee? I cannot count the ways.
That you are a clueless, narcissistic proto-fascist
Are words so true
They make me rue
That I’d not the durst
To use them first.
But here are a few
That well  may be new
To vilipend you.

You move limacine-like
Into the nasty netherworld
Of  our national nuttiness
Spinning whigmaleeries
That you prompt gailliardese
Among those not yet dead of brain.

You are a *******, a blatherskite,
And a fanforan.

So How do I hate thee?
With the breath,
Smiles, tears,
Of all my life,
And if Fate choose,
I shall but hate thee greater
After death.

- Dan Wick

Sweet... so sweet at first; as if intending to overbear, and then in a moment's breath, the intensity having mellowed fades.

Next one's tongue does greet, a nuttiness that begs it to retreat; reviving dead memories of when you two first did meet.

Having now fallen from heights, be they ***** or steep; the taste of your tongue becomes bittersweet. Ending this final kiss, silently pledging to lose neither hope nor sleep; heartbreak leaves the taste of caramel upon your teeth.

dropping from the sky as pellets. An angry
God shooting bullets from the trees, aiming
right at me. They hit me ******* the
head. I shake my fist and say to them

stop! I can’t concentrate from the kerplunk,
the ******* noise you nuts make. Can’t sit
on my deck without them dancing a
pirouette. Can’t walk across the boards without

falling to the floor. The ******* things are rolling
underneath my feet. And making a frigging
mess as we speak. It’s smells like nuttiness. Thank
goodness no one here has a food allergy! I’m going

to get my tennis racket and hit them back
at the tree, whence the rough cupped caps came
flying at me. The squirrels can have a ball. I hope
they collect them all before tomorrow morning.

falling like acorns
under my feet. If I collect them
all I’d have a bowl of nuttiness. I
don’t get what people expect these

days. There’s enough love to go
around. But it seems like some poor slob
is always starved. When you’re young you
never have to ask for affection. Everyone

ooh and ah’s, you, wants to hold you. They pass
you around. You feel like a horse on the merry-
go-round. But when you lose your chubby cheeks
and grow a pair of ******* things look bleak. Those

same people that wanted to hold you
now want to f@*#k you and break
your heart. I had a river, a river of dreams –
now I have a barrel full of monkeys

from the trees. As I sit on my deck
one conks me on the head. All I smell

is nuttiness. All I hear is plop, kerplop, crack
hip-scotch. The planks turn into an acorn

carpet, that make me trip when I try to walk
it. The little critters roll under my feet

as if I have skates. And it makes me look like
a drunk in my sleep when I try to get

across it. Now I understand why they call this
season the fall. But I’ll take it anytime over the snow.