This is the wurst poem ever writ
it has no rhyme, the meter's sh@ t
well maybe it has one lone rhyme
but it's hardly worth your time

I don't know what the intent is
message as clear as soda fizz
mizpelling and tipos by the duzzen
as purty as an old maid cuzzin

You can relax I'm almost finished
is there such a word as ginnished ?
go on back to having fun
this monstrosity is finally done

Steve Mc Queen, we call him, he's a grand old gent
He's slightly hard of hearing and his body's bent

He don't remember me, but that is quite alright
I say my name is Guy, and click his seat-belt tight

We talk about the things we see, where he used to go
I say; Oh, is that right? But the script is one I know

He goes to church each Sunday, from the nursing home
Sometimes he lapses silent, I watch his mind go roam

Pontoon

With this hand of cards I've been dealt
I make the choices without regret
I choose my path along this bumpy road
As it digs me in, to deeper debt

This hand of cards is full of jokers
I make the call and await my fate
I stand at the crossroads in my way
I know my decision, I nervously wait

Decision made
Flick of the wrist
I watch you twist

I should've stuck
But I took the risk
I bust as you twist

Gripped in ancient curve of world,
hazed blue to black on turns of planet speeding slow
across bright vision of new civilization,
the gleam of shining cities spread myriad
along brief crusted scabs of continent
means nothing to the emptiness of eons
light itself can never conquer
through instances of stellar distance…

…no culture proud will cross a million years
of centuries grown geologic in glacial duration…