Your daughter’s not a poem sir. She’s not a Haiku or a Limerick. She’s actually kind of sick. Looks like a drunk whore on Instagram. But I guess that’s normal. Something to be really proud of. Your daughter’s not a poem. She’s not a Ballad or Acrostic. She’s more borderline, more autistic. Can’t even comprehend grammar or empathy. Mayhap she’s a Burlesque Blank Verse Suffering from neuropathy. Your daughter’s not a poem. She’s not graceful or careful. She’s not a bridge of sighs. There’s no ravens on her bust of Pallas, There’s no flies buzzing on her lies. And despite her Dramatic Monologue… …your daughter is no poem. She’s no Epigram, no Epithalamium, No Free Verse. She merely cries and can curse Like an inebriated soldier. She will not be an Idyll when she gets older. She’s not an Italian Sonnet, Got no bees in her bonnet, No gumption in her tea. She just expects things to be handed to her, As you’ve mainly don...
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).