I don’t have anything to say today.
It’s Sunday, and no one is reading.
But if I want to check my box,
Some sort of poem I’ll be needing.
There once was a middling poet,
Who didn’t know when to stow it.
She tortured poor August,
‘Til downward she boggest.
Barrel bottom? She ventured below it.
Limericks are the last lazy refuge
Of a poet in complete desperation.
That said, I worked twenty whole minutes on that–
A masterwork of self-deprecation.
Note: I have something I think is better that I’m saving for tomorrow. It’ll be interesting to see if anyone else thinks it’s better. *snort*