For now my name is only Amos,

Can’t write anything clearly,

Must be because I am an ignoramus…

Passed over when brains were distributed,

For this my inability to write can be attributed,

My brain is nothing but assorted unconnected cells,

Could be why when on the beach I pick up shells,

I hear only, not the ocean, but the clattering of bells…

Poetry can only be written by the passionate,

Only can I in all honesty procreate,

Some may say of my lack of passion,

It could have been replaced by knowledge of fashion,

Though I tend to disagree as of passion and fashion,

I have very little sense, given only a small degree of ration,

Boy did I of this poem do a great deal of thrashin’…

© ed ~ 12/11/05