Any idiot can make a pissed off poem.
Any fool can generate depressing diction.
Any simpleton can be perturbed on paper.
Any jackass can make an iambic infliction.
Any cretin can create a sad soliloquy.
And they can cry about it all night too.
Any taffard can make an anagram an abyss.
And I assure you that they all do.
Any putz can lament about love they lost.
But when do they write about when they take her?
Any freak can make a poem about oppressing parentals.
But you had a good day, put that on paper.
Any goth can write an epitaph early.
And at some times others are tempted.
Any git can generate a sonnet about suicide.
And many do, but I am exempted.
What about the good times?
Where did they all go?
Maybe these wronged writers locked them out?
You can guess, but me? I know.
What about works about the lover that stayed?
Where are the didactics about hope and joy?
Enough of this garbage about darkness of hate.
You say you have angst? You can drop that decoy.
Cus' any idiot can make a pissed off poem.
Any fool can generate depressing diction.
Any simpleton can be perturbed on paper.
Any jackass can, but its fiction.
Any cretan can make a poem a crypt.
And cast all their dreams to the sea.
Any killjoy can write lugubrious lyrics.
But how many poets can bitch like me?