There is a poet and he has a pen
The commonest tool amongst men,
Oft with his wild textual skills
The wonderland he entered thrills
The forest the hills and the dews
With uncurbed fancies he pursues
The pen back and forth releases ink
To push greatness beyond its brink
For writing, being a creative act
Has been a biological contract
Rooted in the body — chiefly the male
Between our life and romantic tale
And bad poems by asses are like this
Weird, wicked, in order to draw hisses
There are sexual implications embedded in the lines, which makes it a “bad” poem.
